Godas
by Wildweasel
Summary: Doggett finally finds a link to an old foe. But is it luck or a trap? To overcome this evil he’ll need more than his common sense... DRR with Scully. rated T for some violence
1. When the rain cries

**Author's note :** This is a Dogget/Reyes/Scully story. It takes place sometimes after Audrey Pauley and before Release. It's my first X-files story too. I'm not a native speaker, but I got a great Beta reader, so thanks to Everybetty. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Doggett, Scully, and Reyes belong to Fox and Chris Carter.

**Summary**** : **Doggett finally finds a link to an old foe. But is it luck or a trap? To overcome this evil he'll need more than his common sense... DRR with Scully.

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xxxxxxx

March 3rd, northwest of Pennsylvania,

5H43 PM

He ran like hell. The hard pounding beat of his heart hammered under his skull in rhythm with his feet crushing the decaying branches under him.

Suddenly, he lost his footing. His right foot sank deeply into a hole, he stumbled forward, crashing hands first into the decomposing leaves. Breathing heavily, the young man raised his face to the sky, begging it silently to let him go. But the dark clouds over him remained silent to his prayers.

Silently, the pouring rain dripped on his face, cooling his red and burning cheeks. His eyes twitched a little under the drops mixed with unshed tears.

A long creepy howl behind him made him stand hastily to his feet. Back to his sprint, he jumped over fallen logs, forgetting any sense of safety. His steps sank deeply into the squishy ground. Wild branches lashed his face as he rushed between the hemlocks.

Ahead of him, he heard the rolling thunder made by the Old Man's waterfall. He speeded his pace, hope gleaming in his wet eyes.

The loud gush of water crashing down onto the rocks warned him that he was close to the edge. Although the howl behind him had been replaced by the sound of the waterfall he didn't slow down his pace. Unfortunately, not realizing the close proximity of the edge he almost slipped into the river when he exited from the shelter of the wood.

Panting, he turned to face the shadows moving between the trees. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the slow ride of the sun into the west. The night will come soon. He swallowed, shivering.

"Jump," whispered a voice in his mind, "or they're going to tear your flesh apart!"

As an echo to the voice, the bush shook on his right for few seconds before it stopped. Intense pain raked his head.

Then, the forest seemed to become alive again. Frightening shrieks erupted from the darkness.

"Jump and you'll be free," repeated a slow, cavernous voice.

"I don't wanna die!" His voice struggled between his sobs as he pressed his hands to his ears.

"You prefer their fangs and teeth in your flesh?" mocked the voice.

"I.....I..." mumbled the young man.

He looked at the rushing river down below and took a step forward. His shoes crushed the green mold covering the edge of the rock.

The last sun ray caressed the left side of his face, like a mother reassuring her child. Then it disappeared, swallowed by the mountain. The light faded slowly, shadows growing toward him.

His lips shook from the cold rain now wetting his flannel shirt. He wrapped his arms around himself, trembling.

"Just one small step," pushed the voice.

"Please," he begged.

"Now it's the right time, Tommy," encouraged the voice.

Closing his eyes, young Tommy surrendered to the voice.

"God help me," he whispered, giving in to the impulse.

His feet left the solid ground as he jumped over the cliff. For two seconds his arms battled the air before he hit the cold liquid.

As soon as he touched the water his lungs emptied, and he sank quickly. In a desperate attempt, he opened his mouth. Freezing water rushed in. Swallowed by the cold, he had no time to think about why he had jumped. He only felt the sharp rocks piercing his body beneath him before everything went dark.

xxxxxxx

March 13th, US highway 219, Pennsylvania

7H09 PM

The loud silence in the car was interrupted as he turned on his windshield wipers to clear the small flakes of snow starting to stick on the glass. His vision blurred a second before the wiper arm brushed all the white flakes away and revealed the dark road. Few lights were coming and going his way as he took the exit on the right and headed to Remingtonsburg.

Quietly, he glanced at the map laid on the passenger seat. His car jumped as the road became rough and winding. With his luck, and if the weather channel was right, it would be snowy the whole weekend. Once again, he was grateful he had taken his truck. The road would probably become slippery and icy on his way back.

For a Friday night, it sure wasn't the best way to spend it. But what the heck, he had no real plans for the weekend anyway. Though if he was right he'd be finally able to put an end to the run of a demon. _Well, not a real one_, he smiled. _But a real criminal mind, that's for sure_, he added mentally.

His eyes gleamed, imagining what his partner, Agent Reyes, would have retorted about the use of that word.

"John," she would have begun, "there are things that nobody can explain, even you." Then, with her mischievous smile she would have teased him about his meanings of 'demon'. But for now she wasn't there, and he was fine with that, though he liked to see her smile. He sighed, pushing away the guilt for not calling her for this case. He knew too well he wouldn't like her going alone for research on a crime. In fact, his former partner, Scully, had done that once. He bit his lower lip, remembering the mess she had put herself into. Cult mob, freaky slug crawling under her skin to reach her brain. She had been lucky he had found her in time, otherwise she would probably be part of this x-files' case by now. He frowned, squeezing the wheel. What he was doing was different. Though he had to admit that trying to catch a killer by himself was totally insane, but he had no choice. The last time the three of them had confronted this man, he had played them all along, even having the opportunity to kill Scully. And for John Doggett this confrontation with Josef Kobold had reopened deep wounds he thought he had buried a long time ago. His thoughts wandered for a moment. The truth was that he was not ready to see his two partners on the x-files turning their back on him like the last time. They had believed in all the crap Kobold had told them. From the beginning he'd had doubts about the professor. And yet, Kobold had managed to make them deliver him right where he wanted to be. Yes, he had manipulated them from the start like some super puppet master. But one thing was sure; he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. This time he intended to be the one in control. He would make the first move. But for that he had to be alone with him. He would be the only player and so the only one to risk his life. That way, there would be no one to mess around with some nonsense about demon or possession. Just him and the puppet master. This time, he'd manage to have the control of the situation as there was no way Kobold could know he was coming. And in the worst case scenario, he could always call for backup.

But whatever happened, this sucker would never get close to his two partners. There was just no way he would allow that. The threat that he could really kill Scully or Monica was just unbearable.

His knuckles whitened as he squeezed the wheel harder. He wouldn't let any of them get hurt, he promised to himself.

He slowed down as his eyes had caught a yellow light on his right. This was just what he needed. He brought the car in slowly before parking it in front of a drugstore. Thirty miles without any signs, he wanted to be sure he hadn't missed the road to Tenoscott.

Stepping out of the car, he glanced at the old house. The store looked very old and dilapidated from the outside. The wood cracked under his boots as he climbed the three steps that separated him from a wooden door.

When he had gotten the news from the sheriff of Tenoscott this afternoon, he had quickly changed into a pair of blue jeans and a long light blue-grey sweater just after his visit at the coroner. The cold wind mixed with snow caressed his neck. He shivered, holding back a curse at the weather, and raised his collar and let out his breath. A small cloud formed before his lips. At least he was happy he had taken his favorite, if worn, green jacket and his brown boots. With those he could face any bad weather, and it wouldn't be a bad assumption with the weekend ahead.

Pressing the handle of the front door, he stepped inside the store. The place was poorly lighted, but it was enough to spot the owner on the other side of his desk, reading a newspaper.

"Hi!" He walked to the desk and looked at the old, grey-bearded man.

The man in front of him may have been bearded but he was almost bald. Small round glasses perched on a large red nose.

"Hey, I kinda lost my way in your country," smiled John, trying to break the ice.

The old man raised a pair of tired eyes on him before he folded his newspaper and settled it on the desk. Then he stood slowly, leaning on the desk for support.

"Why, sir, it's sure not a good time to travel today!"

"Yeah, well it's just a little snow."

"Yeah," smirked the owner, "Now it is, but it's gonna turn bad, I tell you."

"Into more snow you mean," joked John. "The weather channel said it'll be like that for the whole weekend."

"No, I'm talking about really crappy weather, mister. This snow won't stick around. My old knee is sure it's gonna rain; then you'll see, when everything is really soaked, it'll start to freeze."

John grimaced. "I don't think I'll still be here then."

"Well, mister, you better not. You can freeze a cow in one night out there."

Reassuring the owner, John gave him a big smile.

"I'll keep that in mind. In fact, you might even be of some help to me. If you could answer a few questions."

"Go for it with one mister, and I'll see what I can do."

John grinned, pulling his FBI badge from his jacket and showing his ID to the owner.

"I'm Special Agent John Doggett with the FBI, and I'm looking for this man." He slid a picture of Kobold on the desk.

"Ah." The old man seemed to think about the picture for few seconds, then he looked straight into John's eyes. "We don't see a lot of people around here, and I think I'd remember a face like this one!" He frowned. "Never seen him. Is he dangerous?"

"He's accused of several murders, so yes, you can say he's dangerous." retorted John, slipping the picture back inside his jacket. Then he took one of his calling cards and handled it to the man.

"Sorry mister FBI." The owner took the card. "Special Agent John J. Doggett," he said as he read the card. "If I see him, I'll call you, would it be okay like that?" wondered the old man.

"Quite perfect, sir."

The old owner grinned. "I'll be damned! Nobody's called me sir in a long time," he laughed. Wiping his right hand on the rough fabric of his brown pants, he presented it, "Ah, I'm Kensington Price the third, sir," he smiled. "My parents liked numbers....but here everybody calls me Kenny." he added with a wink.

John grinned, shaking the hand. "Well... Kenny, I'm trying to reach Milton Road, but it seems I can't find it. Am I very far from Tenoscott County?"

"I'd say about twenty miles to the north inside the Allegheny forest." He stroked his beard, and glared at John. "But with this weather it's crazy to go there, especially when the sun is down."

John smiled; the man reminded him of his dad, "Don't worry, I'm a good driver and I..."

The old owner interrupted him raising a hand; John closed his mouth, waiting for an explanation.

"I don't mean your driving mister FBI, it's just...that..." He frowned, staring at his desk, as if he could see his reflection in the bright steel.

"What is it, Kenny?" enquired John, beginning to get worried.

"Well, people talk you know, and down in the valley they said strange things about the place up there."

A serious look on his face, John encouraged him to go on.

Kenny bit his lower lip, staring at John. "They said the place is cursed."

"Do you believe it's cursed?" pointed John with a bit of sarcasm.

The old man sighed, "All I know is people go there, but nobody comes back."

An involuntary shiver ran through John. The old owner must have spotted his discomfort as he added on a tone of the confidence.

"Evil has taken the place," said Kenny, nodding to support his point.

John stared at Kenny. The old man's eyes gleamed with fear. "If you go there, it will be your doom, too!"

Kenny stared back at John, concern in his eyes.

"Eh, no worry, Kenny I'm a big boy!" he smirked.

"I'm sure you are, but if you want my advice, don't go there alone."

With a comforting smile, John looked at the owner. "Thanks for the information."

Then, stepping back, he headed to the door.

"Anytime," replied Kenny. "I just hope I'm wrong," John heard him mutter as the door closed behind him.

_And I hope I'm right_, thought John.

Quickly, he got into his car, shaking away the small flakes covering his shoulders and hair. He turned on the engine and headed north to the forest as Kenny had indicated.

_Wow, the old man was freaky_. He sighed, remembering why he was so powerless sometimes in the x-files cases.

"Evil doesn't exist," he said aloud.

It's only madness and cruelty done by real living men. People should remember that before using evil as an excuse for their fear.

Engaging his truck on a road worse than the one he was leaving, John turned on the radio to listen for the news, hoping it would somehow ease his mood. The sexy voice of Sally Richards presented "a song nobody can forget." Then the beating rhythm of the electric AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' echoed in the car. John shrugged, half smiling. _Then let it be_, he thought.

About fifteen minutes later, long lines of pine trees danced over his side windows. His thoughts traveled back to the day before and the call he had received.

He had learned from his conversation with Sheriff Tusler that it was the first body the small town had ever discovered inside its womb. About eight days before a couple living in Tenoscott had found a body floating in the Snake River. The local ranger, Dixon, and the sheriff had then dragged the young man's lifeless body from the river. Having little knowledge in crime, the sheriff had called the FBI, which in return had redirected the call to John. Luckily, Monica had been gone for some takeout when he had answered, and for once he hadn't talked about the call when she had returned with pizza. Something had pushed him to keep it for himself, though at the time he had no real reason for it. Call it his gut; the thing was, he had been right to keep her out of this.

On the phone, Tusler had seemed a bit unwilling to give John all the details. He had admitted he had been reluctant to call as he had no doubt it was a suicide. But the urging demand of the victim's sister had obliged him to reconsider his position and call the Bureau.

To the sister, his brother was full of life and would never have killed himself.

But what had really raised John's doubt was the MO or the lack of it, he should say. A poor kid, full of life, almost a graduate in three months, that happened to disappear as he had gone for hiking and who was now found dead. All the evidence on the body pointed to a suicide but his gut was telling him it was something else. So a few hours before, as the body had been brought to the coroner's office, he had driven to see it with his own eyes. There, he had found the most peculiar thing he would never have imagined. Folded up, deep inside the victim's pocket, the coroner had pulled out a torn Halloween mask. As the ME had extended it in front of him, the white face of a vampire had snarled to John, as if to provoke him.

A cold shiver had run down John's back as he remembered the last time he had seen one of these on a dead body.

"Daemonicus." The word escaped his lips like a cry of pain and echoed in the car.

A bump on the road shook the truck and brought him back to reality. He tightened his grip on the wheel to keep the truck from sliding and stepped on it. The engine roared and the truck jumped forward, leaving tire prints in the mud. Even with his lights on high, John had to squint to see the road. The snow, falling now heavily, was painting a thick white curtain before the truck that his light could only unveil for a short distance.

The first snow of the day had melted with the morning rain, changing the road into a muddy and slippery path. The whole road turned into a mess, rendered his way up difficult and more challenging. Each time he was turning, he felt his tires slip and the truck skidded to the side.

Then, the bumpy road seemed to disappear and turned into some kind of main avenue. A small rusty blackboard indicated it was Tenoscott.

"Finally," he sighed.

The main street seemed oddly quiet as he looked around. The houses along the road were dark, and no light was visible.

He frowned and followed the board pointing to the sheriff's office. After five long minutes, he found the office at one corner. His relief lasted only for a second, noticing the lights were off here, too. He glanced at his watch. 8:34 pm. He was late. Half an hour at most. Though, when he had the sheriff on the phone he was sure the man had said he would wait for him.

Parking his car right in front of the office, he left his light on as he walked to the door. He knocked and waited. As nothing happened, he knocked again.

"Sheriff Tusler, it's Agent John Doggett! Are you there?"

A long silence followed his words. The calm was only broken by the throttle of his engine.

_Shit, where the hell did he go? _he cursed and looked back at the dark street before him. The only light was coming from his car, otherwise he would be in total obscurity.

The sucking sound of the mud under his boots accompanied him as he walked back to his car,

"Are you FBI?" called a voice behind him.

Turning carefully not to slip, John faced a young boy. No more than ten, the boy was wearing only a black T-shirt with a white smiling skull printed in the middle. Too large for him, the cloth covered a pair of green hunting pants that John was betting only a belt could hold around his size as they were much too big for him.

"It's freezing cold here, don't you have a coat or something?" worried John, staring at the kid standing in the middle of the falling snow.

"I'm okay," shrugged the kid. "You a Fed?"

It wasn't a question, more a statement.

John frowned; the use of the term was strange in the mouth of this kid. It's like, he gave to it an under meaning of some kind John couldn't quite grasp. He shivered and raised his collar to protect him from the cold wind.

"Yes, I work with the FBI. But perhaps you can be of some help. I was looking for..."

"The sheriff," interrupted the kid. "He said some kind of Fed would come over." He nodded toward John. "So you're one."

"You got me!" John winked to the kid, as if they were best friends. But the boy stayed impassive, only looking at John like some kind of new toy at Christmas. Only it was beyond eagerness, more into the predatory mode.

"Sheriff says he talked to Maggie for you."

Confused, John stared at the kid. "Who's Maggie? And why did he talk to her about me?"

The kid glared at John. "She hold renting houses, though she's our town doctor, too. Sheriff says he won't be back before tomorrow morning."

"And where the hell did he go?" asked John.

A small layer of snow over the kid's shoulder fell down when he shrugged. "Don't know. Probably gone for some kind of emergency. You know."

Then, stepping in the middle of the street, the kid faced John. "Just go back the way you came, and stop near the church. Mag's house has a scarecrow painted on the door. Can't miss it," he said, pointing at the other end of the street.

On these words he ran and disappeared on the other side of the street, his body swallowed by the obscuring snow. Only his shoes squeaking inside puddles of cold water echoed in the night.

Alone by his car, John did the only thing he could at this time of the day; he got in and drove back to the street that he came from.

As he arrived at a corner, he noticed the church, or more what remained of it. It seemed the roof had collapsed on itself, taking a part of the front building with it. He glanced to the right and spotted a small light coming from a two story house.

"Must be it," he said aloud. He parked the car along the sidewalk and turned off the engine.

xxxxxxx

She sighed, relieved. He was back. _Like some kind of moth drawn by the flame_, she thought. A faint smile drew her features. The image was appropriate. Soon, he would burn his wings in the fire. The master had told her so. It couldn't be otherwise. The master was always right.

Comforted, she dropped the old shredded curtain when she saw the man taking a bag from his truck and heading to Maggie's.

_Soon_, she thought as she went back to sit by the fireplace, a sparkle beaming inside her eyes.

xxxxxxx

Quickly, he took off his jacket wetted from the light rain that had replaced the snow, and dropped it on a chair near the fireplace.

Even if the hotel was old, and he had doubts about the room being cleaned after each client, he had to admit, the small fire crackling in the hearth was the first good thing he had met in this place. As he sat by the fire, he welcomed the warmth caressing his cold face. Smiling, he pulled out his boots and walked to the bathroom. He could use a hot shower; besides, he had no plans for tonight as the sheriff had left the place, so he could take his time. Though, if he was right, the shower would probably be a bed for bacteria, and he wouldn't stick around too long to see what could grow from there.

Deep in thoughts, he took off his sweater, tossed it onto the bed and grunted when he entered the bathroom. His eyes went from the tub to the sink, disgust apparent on his face.

As he suspected, the place had probably never seen a sponge. Black bloated lines of fungus were creeping from the drain to the white tiles, which were now turning to a ghastly brownish yellow.

_Come on, John_, he cheered up as he set the water on hot. _There_ _was a time in Iraq you would have craved for a place like this._ He smirked. For sure he had gotten soft.

Fifteen minutes later he came out of the bathroom, all fresh and starting to relax. Dressed with a pair of boxers and an old Marines shirt, he sat on the bed.

Putting his gun on the nightstand covered with an old flower paper, he laid down cautiously. The bed squeaked anyway under his weight. He smiled. _Like old times_, he thought.

The small falling rain whipped the window.

_This town is really weird, _he thought. First, the sheriff had been away although John had told him he was coming. Then, that kid. He closed his eyes. The small child face emerging from the obscurity had surprised him. He was so different from Luke. His son was always smiling and excited to discover new stuff. A wave of sadness wrapped his soul, and he felt his eyes watering. Swiping away the small tears threatening to roll down, he focused his stare on the dirty ceiling, and took a deep breath. The back of his hand rested on his forehead. _Not now, _he told to himself.

Yeah, this kid was definitely different from Luke. It was like, he had nothing to hang on, no life in him. As if life had been so hard on him that he just couldn't feel a thing anymore. He sighed, maybe tomorrow he would get the chance to learn more about the boy. Though he had come for a job, the father inside him couldn't stop to wonder what had happened to make him so bitter with life.

Then his thoughts drifted to the last person he had met, Maggie. The local innkeeper had been really prompt to give him a room. She hadn't asked him for any ID or even to sign a registry. He knew country people tended to welcome warmly the tourist, but being welcomed with so much warmth in a town that seemed so cold had woken up the cop inside him. His gut was twitching inside him, screaming something wasn't right. He cursed. Almost two years working in the X-files, and he was becoming paranoid like Mulder. Sighing, he ignored the feeling and turned off the light. Whatever happened, he had his gun and could always call for help if necessary. No need to panic.

xxxxxxx

Outside, he didn't see the shape that slid from the house on the other side of the street and headed straight to his truck.

TBC...

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Please R&R, thanks


	2. Painful memories

**Author's note :** Sorry I'm a little late. I'll try to update sooner next time. And a great thanks to Everybetty.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Doggett, Scully, and Reyes belong to Fox and Chris Carter.

_**Summary : **__Doggett finally finds a link to an old foe. But is it luck or a trap? To overcome this evil he'll need more than his common sense... DRR with Scully._

_

* * *

  
_

He blinked several times, tearing apart the veil of sleep that still lingered in his eyes. The bright daylight caught him off guard, making him groan. Tiredly, he rubbed his face. His hand remained on his forehead, softly massaging his temples as he opened his eyes. He cursed at the bright light piercing through the old blinds, and sunk his head deeper in the white pillow, hoping it would ease the pain. The whole night had been that way. He sighed as the pounding headache that hammered under his skull seemed to fade a bit.

Though that night he'd had all the luxury to appreciate the silence of the place, it hadn't helped him a bit. Besides, the night had been too quiet. Usually, there was always a truck or a noisy bike to wake him up in the middle of the night. But here, the night had just been as empty and quiet as the town. Call it his gut, but he didn't like it.

_Must be life in wilderness_, he thought. And yet, if he was honest, he could recall spending his summers at his grandfather's farm, that even there, there was always some noise at night. Birds, wild animals or even creepy shrieks a six year old would have preferred he never heard. He frowned, raising on his elbows.

_Yep_, this town was quite different. And if Kobold was really here, John had no idea of how to find him and get him back. _Well, not yet._

Pushing away the blankets, he sat on the edge of the bed, one hand in his hair. The cold floor greeted his bare feet without warning, sending a shiver through his body.

"Geez! What now?" he grumbled, his headache gaining more strength as he looked at the chimney.

Only black and cold ashes were remaining in the hearth, the fire long dead. Now, out in the cold of the room, he shivered slightly.

_This is going to be a long day_. He stood and headed to the bathroom. Mechanically, he went through his rough beard, wincing as his feet walked on the frozen tiles. Like he'd said before, this was no hotel at all. But for now, all he desired was a long hot shower, meet the sheriff, get his hands on Kobold, and possibly get rid of this damned headache. Maybe not in that particular order, because busting Kobold would really make his day.

Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower, John exited from his room. Noticing the cloudy weather forecast outside he had opted for a pair of jeans and a long sleeve brown sweater over a white t-shirt. Slipping his green jacket over his shoulders, he grabbed his bag and strode off down the corridor, eager to find Kobold and leave the place.

Without a real surprise, the hall was empty. _This is really getting more and more absurd_, he thought. _That's probably why they didn't get that many tourists over here._

Pushing the main door with his left palm, he frowned. Outside, the place was even quieter than the prior evening. The light rain from the night had melted the thin layer of snow, and everywhere he looked, was thick black mud. Glancing to the left, he noticed the fallen church was covered with the same black goo. But as he squinted, he realized it was closer to dust, as if someone had burned the sacred place to the ground. It was more likely that the snow had covered it yesterday, making it difficult to notice it until now.

"What the hell is going on here?" he muttered, scanning the deserted street.

_If people were starting to burn down churches_… He stopped his trail of thought, considering the implications. His jaws tightened and his sigh became harsh. _There__'__s something here_. He swore he would get to the bottom of it.

Walking to his car, a deadly silence followed his pace. Suddenly, he felt more alone than anytime in his life and wished Monica was there. He was really missing her, especially in weird places like this one. She always had something funny or crazy to say that could cheer him up. He sighed, pushing away the idea.

_No, it__'__s too dangerous for her to be here right now__;__ maybe later __when I__'__ve__ got everything under control._ After all, he wasn't sure he hadn't been set up by Kobold once more, and in that case, the man would probably be eager to get new players.

"No way," he muttered unlocking his car. _Let's find the sheriff_; _maybe he can answer a question or two._

Quickly, he jumped inside the truck, tossing his bag on the passenger seat, and drove to the sheriff's office. Like the day before, the town was strangely peaceful. Nothing moved. Houses seemed oddly empty; apart from the smoke coming out of the chimneys, there was no evidence of human life. _Damned, no kind of life at all._

"Welcome to Ghost Town," he mumbled, parking the car in front of the sheriff's office.

The door was closed and nothing seemed to move inside. Sighing, he got out, hoping this time he'd get some information, and climbed the small wooden stairs. Opening the door, he called out for the sheriff.

"Yeah?" answered almost immediately a gravelly voice from the far end of the office, "... coming!"

Standing in the middle of the office, between two desks, John saw a tall, gray haired man in his late fifties emerging from a door.

"Hi, you must be Agent Doggett, right?" said the man, wearing the green uniform of sheriff.

"That's right." John shook the hand the sheriff offered him, scanning the man. Something was odd, although he couldn't pinpoint what or why. "I arrived yesterday," he carried on, "but it seems you were on something else," he dropped, hoping to get some explanations.

"Ah, right." The sheriff raked his throat. "Hunt Daisy had an emergency. Sorry I couldn't welcome you."

"No problem. I got the small welcome party," he added with a smirk as he leaned on the edge of the desk behind him.

The sheriff frowned. "You met Danny? Huh, strange kid."

"I thought so. What happened to him?" wondered John. He had to admit his mind hadn't stopped wandering back to that kid. Somehow the image of the boy, stranded alone in the falling snow, talking and acting like a grown-up, had brought back painful memories. His blue stare met the sheriff's sad eyes.

A small glance from the officer taught him a lot.

"That bad?"

Setting his notes in the inbox, the sheriff avoided his stare.

"He came here about three years ago with his parents, Amy and Steven Hollins, and his little sister, Sarah. He was around seven at the time."

A small lump formed in John's throat, sensing the drama coming. _Same age as Luke_, he thought.

The sheriff's chair squealed beneath him as he sat loudly, inviting John to sit too. John slid in the opposite chair with black wooden bars, and listened, his heart beating faster in his chest as the sheriff unveiled Danny's story.

"One night, three years ago, we got a hell of a thunderstorm. We're not that protected like you in the big cities, you know. So, we got power surges all over the town. I had to rush from one house to the other when I received the call. On the radio, Melvin was shouting like a pig about to die. He's my assistant." He nodded toward John. "He's young! You know kids!"

John gave him a small grin. "Yeah I do." And encouraged him to resume.

"So, he told me a fire had started in the Hollins' house. I gotta say, at first glance I thought it had to be a lightning that struck the house, but I'm not so sure now." His gaze wandered in the office as if to check if someone had entered when he was talking. Certain only John and he were there, he continued.

"We found no evidence whatsoever. By the time we extinguished the flames, the fire had devoured almost all the place. It's when Dixon and I checked for survivors that we found them..."

A long silence followed the sheriff's words, before he broke it with a sad voice. "Four bodies nestled against each other as if in a last embrace."

A ghost shaded his face. "Little Sarah was cuddled in her mother's arms; she looked almost asleep. It was so..." He stopped, having trouble speaking.

This time the silence lasted in the office. It looked so painful for the sheriff that John resisted the urge to ask him to resume his story. He wondered how he could listen and feel almost nothing.

Okay, maybe over the years his heart had withered inside, got tougher somehow. Used to so many stories of this type that he didn't feel anything anymore. Yeah maybe his humanity had just dried inside him, leaving only a lonely shell. A cold shiver ran through him, making him uncomfortable in his chair. Or maybe it's just that damn town. More than anything, he had bad feeling about this place. He glanced at the sheriff who was now staring at his desk, his sight lost far away from this office.

_What if I'm right_, he thought. _C'mon John_! _If you got a dollar every time you'd felt this way, you'd have a bigger house by now. _Though, his body wouldn't have so many scars. _Okay__,__ maybe_, he admitted_, maybe I'm not just freakin' out because of this case. Let's just be really careful. _

He looked at the sheriff, still staring at nothing. "Sheriff Tusler?" asked John, pulling the sheriff out of his thoughts.

The man seemed to wake up from a deep sleep and resumed his speech, as if he had never stopped. John frowned. _There's_ _definitely something going on_, he thought, his gut twisting nervously inside him.

"We found Danny next to his father," the sheriff said coldly. "The poor kid had gripped to his father's chest, his face pressed against his dad."

Breathing a bit faster, John felt a cold hand clinging to his heart.

"He was there, lying in his daddy's arms, part of his back swelling from severe burns. But you know what was really weird?" He raised his sober stare to connect with John. "The place."

A long line curved Doggett brows. "What do you mean, the place?"

"Well..." The sheriff licked his lips. "They were all in the same place."

John frowned, "That's not inconsistent with a fire. I mean all the family gathering before tryin' to escape the fire is a normal behavior."

"Yeah, that's the weird thing. The room they were in, the kitchen, had two windows and not one of them had been open. The locks weren't forced from the inside to escape."

John frowned, understanding the sheriff's discomfort now that Danny's story was entering the x-files' category.

"It's as if they'd all been waiting," let out the sheriff.

"Waitin' for what?" John cut in.

"I don't know, Agent Doggett. CSIs from Pittsburgh came but they never gave us any answer," he sighed, looking strangely at his desk. "All I know is that we checked the bodies and that's when we heard the sobs."

"Sobs? From where?" enquired John, frowning.

"From the bodies, Agent Doggett, from the bodies. To our surprise, Danny was still breathing, almost as severely burned as his sister, and yet the kid was alive. So we rescued him. A few weeks later, believe it or not, the boy was on his feet, running away from the hospital. His old neighbor called me one night to tell me he had spotted someone near the ashes of the Hollins' house…" The sheriff paused, looking at a small frame set on his desk. "When I got there, I found him sitting in the yard, staring at the remains of his house...."

John waited silently, a quiet twinge burning inside his chest, and he knew this was going to be the hardest part of the boy's story_. _It would be for him, anyway. After several minutes, he glanced at the sheriff, encouraging him to go further, even though it was already taking its toll on him.

"What the hell. The kid was only seven, Agent Doggett!" growled the sheriff, surprising John.

He glared at John. "Can you imagine that? Losing everything you've got in one damned night ?...One day the world is bright and shiny and the next ?... the next...."

_The __next you__'__ve lost everything__, _finished John in his mind, not listening to the sheriff_. __Ther__e__'__s just a hole inside you, and you can__'__t seem to __fill it;__ whatever you do, it__'__s empty, and cold._

John avoided the sheriff's stare, pain swelling from the ocean of his eyes. He desperately scanned the floor as if answers were carved on it. A weight pressed on his chest, his breathing becoming short and shallow. He felt his eyes going moist as an old memory rushed back with force before him.

The tiled floor blurred beneath his feet, as he was back into the green and sad field of his never-ending nightmare. Everyone he knew had backed away to give him some room. He remembered his knees crumpling under him as he dropped limply next to Luke's motionless body. Slowly, the image faded, and he swallowed the lump that wouldn't leave his throat_. Of__course he knew!_ His mind screamed with the pain wrapped in his soul.

Images of Luke's body, laying in the grass passed before his eyes, clinging like a leech to his soul. So many times he had lived this scene, over and over. So many times he had tried in vain to change the painful fate that ended his son's life.

Luke had seemed asleep when he had arrived. If it hadn't been for the police and the FBI circling him, he would have thought he was just playing dead as he used to do, back in their yard. He felt the old characteristic pang of pain, merged with guilt and sadness pouring from his body. He took a long deep breath to avoid the next flow of more painful images rushing in and to push aside the feeling he had learned to bury so well all these years.

As if he hadn't noticed anything, the sheriff continued, "I think he saw them dying. Must be why he never really talked after that," he finished.

John slowly composed his face so the sheriff couldn't notice what was going inside his mind. But he remained quiet, his thoughts focused on the case and Danny's story. The boy had lost everything in one short night. Just like him. He breathed silently, muffling the pain that tried to find another insidious way to choke him.

"I see." His sad stare lingered on the floor.

The sheriff stood up abruptly. "Since then he's hanging around, lonely, avoiding people, wearing those strange clothes..."

A concerned look gleamed in John's eyes. "What about social services? They should have been called to take care of him," he said, his tone almost accusing.

"We did, Agent Doggett, but you know he lost so much... I guess he didn't care about himself anymore," threw the sheriff, his eyes gloomy.

About to talk, John opened his mouth and closed it, changing his mind. Taking another deep breath, he managed to push away the new flow of images rushing in his mind.

_He didn't care anymore,_ his mind echoed, repeating the sheriff's words. Without warning, the pain lurking deep inside his heart soared through his body, wrenching his soul in the process. The hot burning pain grew stronger inside his chest. Breathing slowly, melancholy filled his mind, his thoughts drifting back to that fateful day. Seeing Luke's frail body lying lifeless in the grass had been the most painful thing he'd ever seen. But, trying to push away the images was just as difficult. In some way he felt as if he was failing his son once again by not being able to look at his small body. _It was like erasing the last statement of Luke's existence._ He shivered, his eyelids dropping uncontrollably as his mind fought the suffering induced by this dilemma. It felt like a sharp knife piercing his heart each time he remembered that scene.

Still, in his chair, he was just unable to make a move.

"Since then..." continued the sheriff unaware of John's discomfort. "He comes back regularly from his new foster parents and hides here until another police car comes by to bring him back to another institution."

John nodded slowly, his gaze trying to connect with something concrete on the floor, his hands joined together in a helpless way.

Sheriff Tusler turned around at his desk, not noticing John's quiet behavior. He opened a small cabinet, his back to John.

"Did you stay at Mag's?" asked the sheriff, jumping on another subject.

"Uh, what?" mumbled John, taken aback by the quick change of tone. "Yeah, I did."

The sheriff smirked, turning toward him, "Sorry Agent Doggett, it's the only place I could find in so little time."

"Ha, that's alright; the place uh... has... Is quite colorful," he said, trying to remain diplomatic.

"Yeah, you can put it that way." The sheriff shot him a smile and shuffled between a few notes on his desk.

Then, again, a deep silence filled the room. Without anything to focus on, John's mind slowly drifted back to his son.

"So, I guess you want to see the crime scene, huh? That's how you people from D.C. proceed, right?"

It took a second before John noticed the sheriff was asking him something. By pure reflex, he picked up the last word his mind had caught and repeated it.

"Right," he said simply, Luke's pale face still lingering in his mind.

Trying to compose his face, he got up when the sheriff passed before him, and followed him toward the door.

"Are you okay, Agent Doggett?" asked the sheriff, noticing for the first time his grim look, as he pushed the door. "You seem… I mean it's not my business though, but you seem a little upset."

"That's okay! I..... I haven't had breakfast actually, must be it," he lied, knowing the skipped meal wasn't the problem.

"Well I might have some power bars somewhere in my desk," proposed the sheriff about to make his way back to the office.

"Nah...I'm good, Sheriff." John said, trying to pull on his best cocky smile while pointing at the sheriff's truck. "Let's go to the crime scene."

"Okay then," said the sheriff as he jumped in his truck, gazing suspiciously at John as he opened the passenger's door and sat. "You know, there's a good place for lunch if you're up to it after this."

John glanced quizzically.

A large smile drew on the sheriff's face. "At Charlie's you can find the best pancakes in the whole town," he said as if he was repeating something he heard on TV.

"Sure," answered John, wondering if there was room for any other diner here anyway. And honestly, he could really use something to eat.

"Ah, you won't regret it, Agent Doggett." The sheriff smiled, starting the engine.

Thirty minutes later, after a long and bumpy road, the sheriff stopped his truck near a very large trunk. The top of the tree had been chopped off, leaving only a bare and burned trunk.

_Another __one burned_, thought John. _This is beginning to be usual over here_. _It__'__s too much of a coincidence, the church, Danny's home, and now that tree._ Quietly, he felt the tension building in his shoulders, his senses fully awaked.

Both men got out of the car, and took a small path sloping between the thick rows of pines. Although the dried pine needles crushed under their boots, John could still hear the sound of the gushing waters straight ahead.

After passing a bulky bush, he emerged on a small rocky beach facing an open space. A two hundred foot wide river was moving lazily toward a dead fall.

"It's the Old Man's Falls," shouted the sheriff, trying to overcome the gushing flows.

Then he pointed to the falls on his right. "Let's go this way!" He indicated, showing a small groove between rocks. "There's a small track going down to the crime scene."

Walking along the rushing river, John followed the sheriff toward the thin groove, a small line creasing his forehead. If the sheriff hadn't pointed out the way he wouldn't have noticed it. Only one man at the time could go through the opening. _Weird place to come to die_, he considered. The groove cut between gray rocks left little space to get in. And he had to empty his lungs and squeeze his chest to slip inside.

The cold surface of the rock rubbed against his sweater, sending chills down his back. His face stuck against the cold surface, he suppressed a small shiver and started to descend the sharp rocks, his sight peering down. Twenty feet down, he arrived on a small rocky platform covered with moss. Careful not to slip, he approached the edge and peeked at the dark foaming pool. From there he could see the whole height of the falls. As his sight followed up the flow of gushing waters, it stared a few seconds at the dark sky over him. Large black and threatening shapes were coming his way, clouding the sky.

He sighed, remembering Kenny's warning about the weather over there. Biting his lower lip, he hoped the guy was wrong and looked back at the sheriff waiting near the edge of the cliff.

The platform was long and extended along the river down below. The dense forest on the right, eating part of the place, left small room for more than two men to stand side by side on the trail.

A line curved John's brows. "How do ya know he jumped from here?" he asked, curious. His hand waved at the platform. "This place isn't one ya can stumble on at every corner."

For a second, John thought he caught a glimpse of hate in the sheriff's eyes. Though he pushed the feeling aside as the sheriff walked toward him, his face now unreadable.

"We're not that dumb, Agent Doggett," retorted Sheriff Tusler, anger in his voice.

By the tone, John knew it was too late to explain he hadn't meant to insult him. So he preferred to drop the subject, and walked toward the edge of the cliff. The angry sound of the gushing waters erupted from under him as he bent to look down once again, his gaze sucked in by the darkness of the pool.

"How deep?" he shouted over the rumbling thunder.

The sheriff seemed to think a moment before answering, "Thirty feet at most, in the center of the pool, but it's just about three to four feet if you mean near the fall." He shot a curious look at John. "So, you better aim for the pool if you don't wanna become a broken piece of meat yourself."

Besides the awful clash of the waters, a long silence set place between the two men. John frowned; the sheriff's words seemed a bit odd for a police officer, even for one marooned in the mountains. _Maybe it's just the place_, he thought. _This town's got to turn people into weird folks, or it's just me. Maybe I'm just tryin' to see weird things to link 'em to Kobold._ He sighed, his mind back to his nemesis. Kobold had really got under his nerves. Though it wasn't like him to get pissed off so easily.

He turned around, sadness swelling from the depth of his eyes. In any other circumstances, Monica would have been with him, preventing him from pissing off the locals as he just did with the sheriff. But right now he was alone, and he wasn't going to change the situation anyway. So he took a long breath, and focused on the place.

This kind of crime scene always had a clue hidden if only you knew where to look for it. His back to the empty space of the falls, he faced the dense green forest. A light breeze coursed through the trees and into his brown hair. A cold feeling of threat sunk deep inside him. Squinting toward the forest, he could only distinguish the large dark-brown trunks rowed defensively before the forest.

A check on his watch told him it was ten past eleven. He looked up to the dark clouds covering almost all the sky now. The faint light that radiated wasn't enough to pierce through the cover of the pines. The forest and its secret remained in obscurity to John. His mouth half open, he took a small breath and headed toward the trees. His flashlight raised over his shoulder darted a white beam through the darkness.

"Hey, Agent Doggett," called out the sheriff. "The crime scene is over here!" He voiced, pointing at the platform.

Ignoring the calls, John stepped inside the forest. His boots sank under his weight in the pulpy mix of damp leaves and pine needles. Slowly, his light scanned the soil, ran to the dark trunks and then back to the ground. He realized the forest was growing over a waving soil, so thick and so deep he couldn't see more than twenty feet away. With a circling move, he lit the ground near him. His hand froze as the light caught a metallic glimpse. Quickly, he closed the gap in three wide steps. The light stuck on the object, a line creased his forehead, understanding what was probably in the moss. Carefully, he grabbed a part of the object. The contact under his fingers felt smooth and cold as he pulled it out from the dead leaves.

Almost stunned, he glared angrily at the object. Unwrapping the folded plastic, a mask from a horror movie was staring at him. The white potato face of Jason stared at him, the metallic staples on the edge of the hockey mask reflecting a yellow haunted light. He swallowed slowly the lump in his throat. _This is the right place_, he thought. _Kobold must be close_.

Putting his light in his mouth, he pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and dropped the mask in it. He zipped it and let out a deep sigh, raising to his feet. Now he was sure it was Kobold. If only he could find him.

Heading toward the platform, his right hand swung loosely at his side, clutching at the evidence bag. Whatever happened to that young boy, something had probably forced him to jump, by fear or by some kind of sick mind game that Kobold loved so much.

"What's that?" asked the sheriff, pointing at the plastic bag in John's hand, when he emerged from the darkness of the trees.

"Evidence that ya may be right about this place bein' the crime scene after all."

A large smile spread over the sheriff's face. "Told you, Agent Doggett. We're not that dumb here."

"From what I found," John said, remembering the mask half buried in the leaves, "I'd say there were more than three people in the forest."

"Tourists probably. Lots of people come and go here just to take a look at the Falls, especially the kids." He shot a friendly wink at John.

Yeah maybe, but that wouldn't explain the mask, and why he had found another one on the victim.

Shrugging, the sheriff glanced at John, his mood improved. "Well I'd say let's go eat something. What do you think, Agent Doggett?"

John looked at the forest then at the cliff, his gaze running through the pines and stones surrounding him. Finally, he gave up. He wasn't going to find anything more here to help him with the case. Stepping back, he met the sheriff's impatient stare.

"Why not," he answered, following the sheriff already climbing. Though he wasn't really hungry.

This time it took them more than forty minutes to get back to the town. The descent giving more speed and weight to the truck, the car skidded on the rocks so often that it felt as if they were driving on the side of the road instead of on the road itself. Although the bumping and bouncing were giving a new meaning to the word seatbelt, the sheriff managed to slow down the course of the car. Very quiet while on the trip back, he glanced from time to time to the agent in the passenger's seat, his sight more inquisitive as time passed.

Even deep in his thoughts, John had noticed his sideways looks a long time ago, and frankly this was making him very uncomfortable. Looking out of the window, small wooden houses slowly replaced the pines before him as he reassured himself. _Maybe he_ _never worked with government people before, that could explain his weird behavior since I arrived._

Roughly jerked forward, John felt his seatbelt bite in his hips and shoulder when the truck came to a brutal halt. A small grin passed on the sheriff's face when John grimaced.

"Sorry, Agent Doggett, but with the mud it's the only way to really stop this kind of car," he added with a smirk.

Counting to three, John glared at the sheriff. "Remind me to give you a tour of DC when you visit us."

Smiling smugly, the sheriff exited the car and strode toward a small two story house. As John followed the sheriff's steps from the truck, his sight went to the house. A small board with a cup and a saucer was carved in black and white on the first story. Under the child's cup painting, in red letters the word _restaurant_ had started to melt on the brown wooden wall, giving the feeling that the house was shedding tears of blood. Suppressing a shiver, John deduced it was probably the diner the sheriff had talked about. Jumping out of the truck, his cell phone rang. Glancing at the ID, he looked at the sheriff.

"I'll be right there."

As the sheriff nodded and entered the diner, John pressed the green button, and slid the cell phone to his left ear, already biting his lower lip.

"Doggett," he said, knowing already the caller's name. Somehow he was just hoping it would delay the forthcoming blast he could already hear ringing in his ears.

"John?" asked a woman's voice, "it's Monica, are you okay?"

He frowned, the question taking him by surprise. "Yeah, Monica, what's up?" _Everything that could postpone the lethal question would be welcome._

"Where the hell have you been, John?" Her voice sounded a bit angry now.

_Okay, things weren't going to be simple_, he considered. "Well, I got things to catch up, you know." He resumed quickly taking a bitter tone before she asked the wrong question, "What are you calling for anyway? It's Saturday, and..."?

"...And we agreed I would come over to your house, remember?" she cut in. "You agreed to come with me to my friend's exhibition, but first we wanted to get some clothes for the occasion, don't you remember?"

_Gee, he had totally forgotten that_. "Uh, Monica, I'm sorry, I... It really slipped my mind." Without thinking, he ran his hand in his hair. _Dammit__,__ John! how could you forget that? _He sighed. "Listen, Mon, I'll make it up to you, alright_?" _He hoped she would agree, he didn't want to lose her; though she had gone so far with him, it had made him wonder sometimes why she hadn't quit already. _After all, Barbara did, so why not her?_

"This is not like you, John," she answered, "are you sure everything's okay?" Her anger already forgotten.

"Yeah, yeah, Mon, everything is fine." He glanced at the muddy empty street. "I just have a lot on my mind lately, that's all..."

A long pause followed his words. He could see Monica biting her lower lip and wondering what he meant by that. _Dammit, she could see through him so clearly._ Then her calm voice echoed on the phone.

"Well then, when can you pick me up? We still have a few hours before..."

John closed his eyes, not catching the end. Okay, this is going to be more difficult than he thought.

"Ah, Mon,..." he interrupted her softly, "I can't, I'm sorry." And he was.

"What do you mean you can't? Do you mean you have a broken leg and won't be able to wear a suit, or do you mean you're not there?" He could hear her disappointment filtering between her words.

He took a deep breath. "I just can't, I'm not in DC anymore."

"Then where are you?" she asked, sudden worry filling her voice. "You're not on a case without me, are you?.... John?"

"It's not a case, Monica." _At least not an official one_, he added mentally.

"So where are you? Is it a secret or what?" Her voice raised one octave, worry exuding more.

"No, no secret, Mon." He thought for a moment, considering if he should tell her. After all, he was getting a bad feeling about this place. Though, he didn't want her anywhere close to this place if he was right._ No, not a good idea,_ he thought. He knew her. As soon as he would tell her where he was she would drive straight to be with him. And frankly, even if this place made his gut twitch madly, he wasn't ready to risk her life, not with Kobold around. He never liked to lie, especially to after all they'd been through, and what she had done for him, he couldn't let her come. _It was for her own good._

"John, what's going on?" her voice questioned with concern.

He took a deep breath, a painful stare lost over the pines. Images of Luke's death danced sickly before him. He breathed slowly, trying to get back to the real world as Monica was calling his name for the third time.

"John? Are you okay?"

Slowly, he massaged his eyelids. The headache was back, pounding harder beneath his forehead. Without thinking, his hand reached for his wallet where he was sure to find Luke's picture. When he felt the warm leather under his fingers, his hand froze, and fell back to his side. _No, not now__,__John!_ he urged himself, swallowing the lump formed by the pain.

"Yeah I'm okay, listen, I..."

"No you're not!" she cut bluntly. She cursed.

_She knew him so well,_ he thought. Even though he didn't like to lie to her, he decided to give her something. Something that would not drive her right here and would then keep her safe, hoping she would forgive his lie.

"It's okay, I'm on somethin', Mon. One of my buddies got into some trouble. So I just came by to give him a hand, ya know. So nothing important, really."

"Are you sure, John? I can come and maybe help."

He sighed. He missed her, but it wasn't wise that she come here if he was right. _Yeah right, come and screw up your weekend and possibly your life too_, he cursed mentally. _Damned good job, John! I bet she's already got her car keys in hand!_ He fussed about his stupid need to convince her, and that it could now jeopardize everything.

"Thanks, but I'm just checkin' stuff for him," he lied.

_Come on! John,_ he thought, _give her something better._ He closed his eyes, tossing a bigger lie,

"I should be back tonight. So, no need for you to come over."

"Are you sure, John?" she said, obvious disappointment in her voice.

"Yeah, no big deal, Mon. I'll see you on Monday, okay?" he told her, hoping it wouldn't turn out to be a lie too.

"Okay..." she whispered.

"I gotta go, Mon. Bye." He hung up quickly, not leaving time for her to answer. _It was better like that. With more time she would have probably added something, like a meeting or something between today and Monday. Then she would have worried again in case he couldn't show up on time. No, this mysterious suicide wasn't going to be solved before tonight. Meaning he was stuck for another night in this Stephen King town._ He sighed, hoping she would forgive him. _Whatever happened it was better that she and Scully stay far from this place_. He nodded silently, convincing himself it was the right thing to do.

A raking sound to his left made him turn. "Who's there?" he called, striding around the sheriff's truck.

His heart leaped inside his chest as he froze, squeezing the phone in his hand. Standing beside the car, in a black sweater, the small boy from the other day was studying him silently.

"Danny? What are ya doin' here?"

The boy stared at him. John swallowed, feeling the little green eyes piercing through his soul.

"Danny?" he asked again taking a step forward.

Then he noticed the dirt covering the boy's pale cheeks and blond curly hair. As he looked closer he noted the mud spread on his black pants and the dried leaves still clinging to his blond curls.

"What happened to ya, buddy?" he asked with worry.

Not wanting to scare the boy, John approached slowly. But each time he was getting closer, the boy took a step back.

"I'm not gonna hurt ya, buddy," he said, raising his hands, "okay?" He took a small step, his eyes keeping contact with the boy's green pearls. "I'm here to help ya."

The boy smirked and turned away. Before John had a chance, he took off in a fast run toward the forest.

"Okay then," muttered John, frowning, "maybe next time."

Sliding his cell phone in his jacket, he strolled back toward the diner, hoping his day would get better. But somehow, the twitching in his gut made him doubt about that.

**XXXXXXXXX**

She stared at the phone in her hand, the low rhythmic beep still echoing in her ear. He had hung up so quickly she hadn't got the chance to know where he was. _Dammit__,__ John!_ Something was telling her it was exactly what he wanted. She pouted.

_Why, John?_ She thought_, why are you keeping me so far ? Why don't you want me to reach out ?_ She sighed; every time she had tried, he had gently avoided her. _So why __hang up so quickly this time? _She frowned, _it is so unlike him to forget an appointment, especially when he had given his word. Something important was obviously bothering him. _And she wasn't with him to help. She really didn't like it.

Somehow their relationship had greatly improved this last year, to a point she was beginning to hope he was on the road to heal and perhaps.......ready to love again. She sighed; the pressure in her stomach was still heavy, and she couldn't shake the idea she should be with him. But one other thing was bothering her. His tone today had been odd, as if he didn't want to talk to her. She hoped she was wrong, and yet her gut inside twisted more with every minute.

"John, what did you get yourself into?" she whispered.

For a minute, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly; the feeling was so strong, so overwhelming. Since this morning she hadn't stopped having strange sensations about him. At first, she had thought she was excited to go to this exhibition with him. But when she had found herself alone in front of his closed door, and no one to answer her calls, it had grown louder, like a pang inside her heart. It was a nagging feeling that something wasn't right, a feeling of dread she couldn't quite grasp. She bit her lower lip. A_t least he was okay_ she reassured herself, _but for how long, _added her mind.

"Come on, Monica, John knows how to take care of himself," she repeated silently. "He's gotten out of more troubles than I can count, then no reason to worry, right?" Her stomach twitched. "Yeah, but there's always a first time for everything," she added, "and sometimes it's the last thing you do."

She took a deep breath, defeated. Whatever it was, she couldn't do a thing from here, and he knew that. Setting the phone back to its socket, she headed to the kitchen. She definitely needed a cup of coffee. He had asked her not to worry, but it was totally out of question she obey, not with what she could sense right now anyway.

**XXXXXXXXX**

He looked at the pancakes on his plate. The amber maple syrup had slowly slid to the side and was now forming a golden pool under his meal. His appetite, not very big before arriving at the diner, had just vanished after talking to Monica. He was feeling guilty the way he had talked to her. She was just trying to help as always, and he had told her to back off as if she meant nothing to him. His chest tightened, _maybe he was just a jerk_. Pain welled inside his eyes as he watched the butter melting slowly in the golden pool as his own life had melted few years back.

And now, as if it wasn't enough he was screwing up his relationship with Monica. Whatever he had told her, she wasn't going to buy it so easily. He bit his lip, suppressing a faint smile, _she was smart._ His eyes shone proudly_. _She would figure out what he was doing. But then she would storm here. At most he bought himself few days.

"What?" he mumbled, blinking, as if he had just woken up.

"You should really try," suggested the sheriff, pointing at John's plate before his fork plunged eagerly in his second round of pancakes.

John watched amazed as the sheriff engulfed half of the pancake in his mouth. His sight went back to his own meal and wondered if he shouldn't eat a bit. After all he had long passed breakfast and soon his body would claim its share of calories. Eventually, he opted for another sip of his diet coke. At best the cold drink was the only thing he could really swallow right now. He blinked, thinking he had seen the pancakes moved on his plate.

"What the hell!" he muttered.

"What?" wondered the sheriff, his curiosity piqued.

"I..." John stopped, wondering if he hadn't just imagined it. "Nothing. You were saying, Sheriff?" he added, trying to change the subject.

A smirk passed on the sheriff's face. "You city guys, you're bizarre, you know," he stated before he swallowed another big bite of pancakes.

_Yeah, we're weird_, thought John ironically, _and this town is paradise._

"So," continued the sheriff, "there's Tommy's cabin you might want to see."

_What?_ thought John. The pancakes had moved again and this time he was sure it wasn't his imagination.

"It's on the same side of the cliff we were. Well, the place is a bit messy," said the sheriff, his eyes glaring at John, "but I guess your cop side might find something."

"My cop side ?" repeated John.

A line carved his forehead as he raised a puzzled stare at the sheriff. A loud whizzing sound buzzed inside his ears, as he watched the sheriff swaying before him. _No, not the sheriff,_ he realized, fear gripping his whole body, _it's the whole place!_ A cold sinking feeling cooled his body as he took a deep breath. The world swung back and forth everywhere his sight went. _What's happening to me?_ His eyelids heavy as lead, he blinked at the sheriff.

"How,..." He swallowed, breathing hard, "how did you know I was a cop?"

The sheriff smirked smugly. "We know everything about you, Agent John Jay Doggett."

The sheriff stood up, forgetting his pancakes as he threw his napkin on the table.

Having difficulty holding his head up, John felt his vision blur as he spied the two men standing beside the sheriff. Tall with broad shoulders, they obviously weren't there for the famous pancakes. Swallowing, he gathered his strength, hoping to surprise them, and stood abruptly, trying to make a dash to the exit. Instead, he felt his legs give out and fell back miserably in the booth, his arms hanging loosely beside him.

"What hav' ya.... donn'... to me?" he slurred, his breath short.

The sheriff nodded to the men beside him. From the corner of his eyes, John saw them encircling him.

"Don't worry, Agent Doggett, the master wants to see you alive. Take him!" ordered the sheriff.

Without more warning, John felt their strong grip tugging him out of the booth by his armpits. He tried to stand but his feet didn't obey. Powerless, he felt his boots drag limply on the black and white tiles of the diner. As they dragged him outside, his head sagged to his chest. Slowly, his vision grayed, and the sound buzzing in his ears grew louder. In a last effort, he opened his mouth to breathe, hoping it would give him enough strength to fight back. But no air came in. A wrenching pain soared through his chest as he couldn't breathe anymore. Then, he realized, panic rising, that whatever they had given him, they had messed up with the dose, 'cause, he wasn't going to make the trip to wherever the hell they were taking him.

His lungs on fire, he lost contact with the world as all his senses slowly faded away. Darkness replaced everything. Lost and cold, his last conscious thoughts drifted toward Monica.

He remembered telling her he was _going to be fine. What a lie! _

He remembered pushing her away. He had been so wrong.

He remembered he had never told her what she really meant to him, that he cared even when he was saying the contrary. _Damn you__,__ John!_

He cursed in a last hopeless waking thought. He remembered he was alone now as he urged desperately the air to fill his lungs. As he lost the last grip to this world, he wished she would find the strength to forgive him one day.

**

* * *

  
**

TBC...


	3. Any way out

**Author's note :** Sorry for the delay. I've been doing a lot of things lately, not always home, so.. well... for those who are waiting for this story I'll try to update soon, I have not forgotten about you.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Doggett, Scully, and Reyes belong to Fox and Chris Carter.

* * *

March 14th, 16:13pm

Virginia

The phone rang, making her heart leap. The fast beating of blood echoed in her chest as she turned off the TV and grabbed the phone eagerly.

_Please, __let it to be John,_ Monica prayed, closing her eyes and sliding the phone to her ear.

A small voice started to talk fast. Slowly, her eyes opened, dejection filling her stare. Sadly, she gazed at the brown tiles on the floor, nodding tiredly to her invisible correspondent.

"Hi, mom," she said unhappily. She sighed, "No mom, I'm glad to hear your voice." She paused, thinking. "...I was just...waiting for someone else to call."

As the conversation kept on going about the virtues of being married and having kids, Monica felt a lump forming deep in her throat. Soon, her thoughts drifted toward John and she stopped listening to her mother.

_Where are you__, John? Why can't you tell me what's on your mind? Why so many secrets?_ Her mind went in circles, wondering if and when he would call. Sure she could try his place, and call him, but she didn't want to appear as if she was stalking him. The man needed his privacy, and John was a very private man, not the kind to tell everyone about his life. She sighed, pacing the room. It was so frustrating to be here, not knowing. To add to that, her sensations hadn't vanished from this morning. Instead, the tickling feeling of dread had grown louder inside her chest, twisting and turning to a point it was hard to ignore it anymore. Besides, this kind of feeling had helped her more than once in the past, and each time it had been justified. However, she had to admit it had never been this strong and that was freaking her out even more.

_Come on__, John, just give me a call!_ _One small call, it doesn't matter_, she pleaded raising her eyes to the mirror in the hall and catching a glimpse of her face. She bit her lower lip, not sure what to think of the vision in the mirror. The shining surface was revealing an old fear lurking in the depth of her eyes. That same fear she had seen the day before finding Luke.

She swallowed, remembering that fateful day. She hadn't known John for that long at the time, only a few days, but somehow she had connected with him in a way she hadn't even thought possible. His fear and guilt were seeping so freely from his whole being that it had been an overwhelming experience to her. To tell the truth, she had never felt so much pain and turmoil in only one person. Usually she was able to connect with people and get a sample of the flow of emotions emerging from them, nothing more. But with John, things had been very different. She hadn't got a sample, she'd gotten enough to drown her. It was like he had dropped the barrier that could keep the flow from gushing toward her, only he had no idea of it.

She nodded silently, the phone still stuck to her ear. Yes, it had been extremely confusing, until she finally realized why it happened. He was caring and loving without conditions, without protections for himself. She sighed; that's why it had been so hard for him to deal with his son's death, so hard to deal with his guilt. She let go a sad sigh. Guilt. He was bearing it heavily on his shoulders because he believed he had failed Luke. She felt her eyes water. How a man so truthful with his friends and family could fail any of them, she had no idea._ If only he could see that_, she prayed, _if only..._

The monotonous sound of her mother gossiping about her neighbor echoed in the phone. Anxious to receive news from John, she excused herself to her mom, pretending to have a headache and needing to rest. Then she agreed to call her in few days and hung up.

For a moment her eyes remained stuck on the phone, desperately hoping it would ring again and this time, it would be John, saying that he made it sooner and would pick her up for the exhibition.

Instead, the phone remained hopelessly dead. She considered the idea of calling him. It wouldn't surprise him if she was making a fool of herself anyway. Closing her eyes, she bit her lower lip and pushed the idea aside. Tomorrow, she'll call tomorrow, she promised herself.

As if on auto drive, she walked to the couch and sat. Letting her body sink in the squishy cushions, she grabbed the remote control and pressed on the first button beneath her fingers. It didn't really matter what channel was on, as her mind was too far away for recording anything. Slowly, her head rested on the back of the couch, her sight lost in the white ceiling. Then, she did a thing she hadn't done since William's kidnapping. She prayed. Her lips muttering a silent prayer to God, she asked him to keep an eye on a good man. A man she was deeply attached to, a man who had already lost too much in life.

**xxxxxxxxx**

A faint rustle sneaked evilly into his mind before it turned into a rising rumble erupting like a pounding hammer between his ears. Half opening his eyes, a dizzying pain exploded from within his skull. Despite the shooting pain, and after straining efforts, John finally made out a thin ray of light piercing between his eyelids. The world too shiny to see anything, his vision blurred as lead weighed down on his head. A buzzing sound invaded his ears, and he felt the world spin around him. His thoughts jumbled up, he fought to keep an eye open, even if it meant a shooting pain lashing through his brain.

_Focus__, John, stay awake!_ he repeated to himself, struggling with the enticing darkness. Slowly, his senses came back one by one. First, his sight ceased to sway like a day after a hangover. Then, he soon realized he was moving as the numbness left his arms, and he felt the long tremors beneath him. More precisely, he was in something that moved.

His mouth dry, he attempted to swallow, only to find a thick rag squashed deeply between his lips, making it impossible for his tongue to even move. His breathing became labored and he focused his energy to inhale through his nose, hoping to clear his thoughts. Raking his mind, he tried to remember what was the last thing he could recall?

Images flashed before his eyes... pines,... muddy roads, ... a ghostly town, yeah... he remembered now. As he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the image of the town, he recalled he had ended up in some kind of horror movie town, with Sheriff Simpson as the only live person he had really met. Though, that sheriff had revealed himself to be more dangerous than the cartoon character.

His eyelids dropped a moment, his breathing decreasing as well. _Focus, John!,_ his mind screamed. His eyes shot open as the reality dawned on him. Whatever drug they had given him, it wasn't wearing off. Instead he could feel it kicking in, making him dizzy and sick as hell. _Not like that_! his mind shouted_, I'm not gonna let him win so easily!_

Suddenly, he felt his body rise in the air before falling back harshly on the cold steel floor. His arms crushed under him, the last remnants of numbness waned as a dull pain shot through his right shoulder. Even if it hurt like hell, he thanked who ever was in charge up there as the pain was keeping him conscious.

As the ground beneath him was constantly run by tremors, he guessed he had to be in a truck. He tried to stand but found his hands were tied behind his back by cold metal bracelets. The thin side of the cuffs bit in his wrist as he tried to free his hands_. Dammit! They used my own handcuffs! _He would have cursed only if he hadn't been gagged.

_Relax__, John,_ he told himself, _you're not done, not yet! As long as the truck is moving you still have a chance, you just have to find a solution._ Breathing deeply through his nose, he stared at the roof. As the truck shook again, he watched the black tarp covering the roof being lifted by a gust of wind. Hope gleamed in his eyes.

_The__, this was his chance. _If the truck had no hard cover then it would be a piece of cake to jump from it, if only he could free his hands.

Calmly, he relaxed his shoulders and arms, unwinding any tension in his wrists and hands. He closed his eyes, knowing it was going to hurt. He had only done it once in training, back in the Marines. Focusing on his shoulders first, he felt the muscles loosen up, then his biceps relax too. The cold metal of the handcuffs dug into his back.

After a deep breath by the nose, he extended his hands to reach out under his butt. The muscles in his arms and shoulders started to burn lightly from the stretch. Conscious of his strength quickly decreasing due to the drugs, he exhaled slowly to keep a clear mind. Then his hands shakily raked the fabric of his jeans as they forced their way to pass his butt. Stretched out against his pants, the handcuffs bit into his flesh when his hands twisted and tugged on the metal rings to reach his thighs. Worn out, he broke off, trying to catch his breath. But the rag in his mouth was a big handicap to get air, and combined with the drugs, there was little John could do to stay awake. Focusing only on breathing in and out, he surfed over a wave of dizziness that overwhelmed him. Waiting for it to subside, he managed to stay conscious, though the loud banging in his skull forced him to squeeze his eyes shut from the pain.

Almost drained, beads of sweat ran from his temples to his neck when he raised his head in an effort to check the best way to get one hand free. Now, if he could only get one leg over these damned handcuffs,_ then the rest would be a piece of cake,_ he thought. Only what he was about to do was far more painful.

Clearing his mind as much as he could from the drugs, his thoughts centered on his goal as he ignored the aching burn soaring through his muscles. With only his freedom in mind, he squeezed his left leg as close as he possibly could to his chest, his hands reaching out for the heel of the boot, but he was too short.

Dejection filled his mind when he discovered he was only one inch from the edge of the shoe. Eyes shut, his head fell back on the shaking floor, cold sweat running slowly along his temples. Tired, he felt his strength fading away. Breathing all the air he could by the nose, he shook the drowsy feeling seeping viciously into his mind.

_I'll try until it works,_ he grunted mentally, opening his eyes, a new flare sparkling inside them. Raising a heavy head, he tugged his leg against him once more, his muscles screaming from the stretch in his arms. Then he lowered his foot, his boot trying to connect with the metal chain. After stretching out his arms to the point every muscle in his legs and arms were on fire, he finally felt the heel brushing the chain. Twisting his hands to gain more length, he felt with relief the boot grating the metal.

As blood oozed from his aching wrists, he swiftly slid the edge of his heel between the handcuffs. But the boot was big and the shoe remained stuck in the middle. Breathing hard, he knew what remained to be done. So without giving it further thought, he pushed away with all his strength. Sweat slid along his neck as he closed his eyes in an ultimate effort to pass his leg inside his arms. His leg pulled his arms out, tearing his burned muscles and tugging madly on his shoulders as the handcuffs grazed into his wrists. A shooting pain burst inside his muscles as he continued to thrust forward. Blood seeped from his wrists as he pushed more and more, until he finally managed to pass his entire leg between his arms. Out of breath, his leg dropped limply to the floor. _I did it_, he thought, breathing hard. _One done, two to go!_

Through the relief, his head dropped back, resting on the cold floor of the truck. A pounding headache hammered between his temples, following the rhythm of the pulsating vein on his forehead. Beat after beat, he could feel his blood rushing through his body as his heart pumped eagerly to get his breath back. But with only his nose to breathe, and the drugs trying to put him under, dizziness invaded his senses again, making the ceiling swayed lazily over him.

_This,_ he thought, panting through the gag, had taken a lot more of his strength than he thought. But he couldn't lose more time if he wanted to be free. The truck could stop at anytime now. So gathering the last part of his energy, he raised his head, blinking tiredly, and focused his efforts to pass the other leg in the same way. Fortunately, having already stretched out his muscles at maximum and with the advantage this time of having one hand in front of him, it helped him to go through this one a bit quicker, though it remained painful. He let go as his leg fell back lazily, his hands free.

_Good,_ he thought, bringing his hands to the rag. Under his fingers he felt the rough fabric of a scarf and pulled it down quickly around his neck. Spitting out the pieces of fabric still in his mouth, he coughed as a breath of fresh air raked his dry throat. He heaved in pain as his stomach churned suddenly. Shifting to his side, his body huddled under the spasmodic tremors that wracked his chest. Shivering, his head swayed to his side when a wave of nausea hit him back. He winced, and turned slowly to face the floor, his muscles stiffened.

_If __I don't move quickly, the drugs will put me under for good,_ he remembered, shaking.

The loud rasping sound of his shallow breath muffled by the roaring truck, he gulped avidly for another breath of air. Resting on his knees, his hands dropped limply on his legs with a chink. Still blinking from exhaustion, he adjusted his sight to the faint light around him. A cold breeze sent shivers down his back as it cooled his wet sweater, although he welcomed it as it soothed his burning forehead.

After a minute, he was able to distinguish where he was. As the truck bumped again from a dent in the road, he noticed the wooden boxes all around him. Breathing deeply to bring back his heart rate to normal, he took support on the edge of a three foot box to rise to his feet. Weak on his legs, he swayed a bit, but clung to one box and stood up. Scanning the place, he noticed the ray of light he had seen when he woke up, was coming from the back of the truck.

_That's the exit__._

Before heading there, he glanced at the boxes. His eyes widened. One of the boxes had already been opened and unloaded, he realized with horror. In the bottom of it remained only several bars of what he'd bet was dynamite. _They're all crazy_, his mind screamed_. I've got to stop them!_ _But how?_ Shaking his head, he resolved to think about that later; escape was his first priority, then he'd deal with these nuts.

Quickly, he grabbed a bunch of bars and slid them inside his jacket. _These could always come in handy_. Careful not to fall as the truck was skidding on the road, he slogged across the boxes toward the exit. As he had hoped, the truck had no door, only a black tarp closed the exit.

A bit numb, his fingers rummaged through his pockets. He noted calmly that his ID and weapon had been taken. Fortunately for him, they hadn't been that thorough with his jeans pocket, as he felt the reassuring bump beneath his fingers. They had forgotten one thing: his flick knife. A faint smile curved his dry lips.

With both hands still bound by the handcuffs, he managed to slide his right hand inside the pocket and grab the knife. Pressing on the button, the blade slipped out with a clink. Without hesitation he stabbed the tarp at eye level, and squinted outside, checking if the escape path was clear. As a winding rocky road sloped behind the truck, his eyes set on the limit of the trees, ten feet away from the side of the road. _It was far, but if he jumped far enough he could make it before the driver could see anything, _he estimated. This time, piercing through the canvas, John cut an opening wide enough for him and then slid back the knife in his pocket.

A rush of adrenaline burst in his veins as he pushed on his legs and felt his body take off in the air. In full Marine mode, he extended his arms far in front of him, ready for the shock. With the speed, he hit the ground hands first, but instead of crashing face first, he curled up onto himself and rolled on his side to absorb the impact. The rough rocks dug into his back and arms, but it was the least of his problems; due to the speed, he was rolling uncontrollably toward the edge of the road.

Seeing the edge coming toward him at high rate, he reached out as he fell over, his hands closing on a large log. For a second he thought it was enough, but the velocity combined with the force of the fall broke the old branch. Shreds of wood remained between his fingers, and he dropped like a dead stone. His legs hit the ground heavily with a painful stunning shock.

There was time only for a short breath before gravity called him again. Fortunately for him, the steep side of the hill was slightly curved. But it wasn't enough to stop him from falling. In a vain effort, his fingers clawed deeply in the damp soil, as his body was pulled down. Dragging handfuls of mud and needles with him, he slipped a few yards down before he totally lost his grip. With the force of the descent, he fell backward when his foot hit a rock beneath him. Rolling backward, head first, he had no choice but to curl up on himself.

Then, the world started to spin around him. As he took more speed, muddy ground and pieces of dark sky and trees scrambled in his line of sight. Thrust in circles repeatedly, he quickly lost any kind of sense. In this jumbled world, disoriented and his breath coming in short gasps, sharp rocks and branches savagely lashed his exhausted body on his way down. At the verge of unconsciousness, his chest collided with a sickening crack into a green mossy trunk, jerking away his limbs which came down limply to wrap around the tree. His lungs emptied at the same time, sending a flare of hot pain through his chest. An awful weight pressed on his ribcage. Nauseous, he sucked in the cold air vainly. He tried to move but failed miserably when his muscles refused to comply. A loud buzz wrenched his head when he moved it backward. Around him the world kept spinning and turning sickeningly. Surrendering to the flare of hot pain shooting through his body, his head crashed down limply into the dead leaves. His vision slowly greyed, before the faint, orange sunset light was completely replaced by total darkness.

**xxxxxxxxx**

The rhythmic rubbing sound of their shoes grazing the muddy ground reflected the quiet order that kept the men walking at the same pace. Only the whisper of the wind seeping through the faint groove in the rocks broke the heavy silence of the place. As they exited the tunnel, they gathered silently in the darkness, shoulder to shoulder. Their hands before them as they were about to pray, they formed a perfect circle. Still in the dark, the obscurity began to close on them.

Then one of them stepped out of the ring and walked toward the center. A small lighter drawn from his pants in hand, he lit a long candle soaring from a thin ebony pole. Without a word, the men closed their eyes, waiting for the arrival. Soon after they became one with the shadows, a light cool breeze filled the vast cave and the flame flickered in the rhythm of their breathing.

Small clouds formed before their mouth as the temperature had dropped ten degrees, sending cold shivers through their bodies. Then, appearing out of the blue, a tall, slender hooded shape walked toward them. When he reached the ring, they broke to let him in. His feet almost shaving the stone floor, he ghosted out of the ring, heading toward the light. Near the candle, a pair of white gleaming hands emerged from the black robe. With a slow motion, he pushed back the hood and kneeled in front of the pole, his pale hands resting on his thighs. The faint candle light shaded his closed eyes like two small black wells, revealing the burned face of Josef Kobold.

"I thought I told you to always keep an eye on him," his deep voice echoed inside the cavernous hall. "Evil can take so many forms, children."

A slow whisper ran through the circle as agitation sprayed between the men.

"Master..." intervened a young man in his early twenties.

"I'm so disappointed," continued Kobold, ignoring him. "I thought you were ready."

Worried glances passed between the men.

"I thought I could trust you," he stated, disappointment obvious in his voice. His chin dropped to his chest, as he took a pause, eyes closed. _And I'll let the lamb come to me,_ he thought.

"You do, Master," answered Sheriff Tusler as he stepped out of the ring. "We did what you asked....and..." The sheriff glanced at the other men. "He shouldn't have woken up after what Charlie put in his meal; it's just unbelievable!"

"Or you're just stupid," scolded Kobold, as he opened his eyes and cast him an angry glare. "Next time, check that he has really eaten anything before you leave him alone!"

"Well, he..." The sheriff swallowed, thinking about his best option. "We really thought he did. Master. But how do you know he didn't eat?" he asked, frowning.

Kobold shot him an icy stare. "By now, you should know better than underestimate me, Ted." He sighed as if the talk was pointless. "I know what has to be known, Ted."

Kobold's answer sent chills down the sheriff's back as he slowly stepped back, melting into the ring with the other men. "We bow before your wisdom. Master," he added, bowing with the rest of the men.

"Now you have to find him; I can't let one of my misled lambs running aimlessly in the cold wilderness." He sighed tiredly. "But this time, make sure you don't leave him alone," he added, his tone leaving little room to interpret it as anything but a threat. "Until I have talked and reasoned him, he should never be left alone."

The men nodded. "Yes, Master, we will find him," they answered as one.

"I hope so, for your sake," threatened Kobold. "Then I shall make him one of us." He smirked. "Now go!" he commanded. "And this time, make me proud of you."

Without a word, they all but one broke the circle. As every man was in the tunnel, the man in his twenties stayed behind. "You'll soon beam with pride, Master," he added.

A faint smile spread across Kobold's lips. "Then go, my son. I shall accompany you each step of the way."

The face of the young man beamed as he pulled out a Frankenstein mask from a pocket of his hunting pants and slipped it over his face. As he strode away, Kobold closed his eyes.

"Now let see if you can play the game, Agent Doggett, and still survive," he whispered to the darkness, a wicked smile curving his lips.

**xxxxxxxxx**

A long spasm shot through his chest as his mind tore away the dark veils of unconsciousness lingering in his mind. Broken pieces of a never ending fall faded away slowly to be replaced by a bunch of monsterish faces smiling evilly at him. As they ran toward him, growling and snarling like a pack of wild dogs, an old, deep, animalistic anger seeped through his veins.

Holding his ground, John calmly faced the fury surging forward. His feet sank in the black mushy ground, and he watched them emerge from the emptiness of black space.

Whatever happened, he would face them. He wouldn't yield. These creatures couldn't be real, but what really bugged him was the anger that continued to rise inside him, burning like a fire. It burned so much; he had to clench his jaws to hold back a cry of pain.

_Why am I so angry?_ Swallowing the dark feeling, he closed his eyes, trying to find a way to soothe his mind. _It's not real,_ he repeated mentally.

The stench of the pack was already on him when the barks began to subside. A grim smile crept across his face as silence remained. _They ain't real. _

Thinking he had managed to stave off the nightmare, he opened his eyes to stare at a black void. Then, a new face appeared from nowhere. Ready to send this newcomer back to hell like the others, his eyes were almost closed when his whole body froze.

"It can't be!"

He stared motionless at the imploring blue eyes of his son. The hard pounding of his heart echoed in his head as his hands began to tremble slightly.

_It can't be! Luke's dead_, his brain repeated. But inside, he felt a cold hand gripping his heart as he wanted so much that it was him.

_If only..._ He watched painfully as his son was staring frighteningly at him. His heart wrenched by the terror painted on Luke's face, he yielded and stepped toward his boy. He knew his son needed him. Not just by the way the boy was calling him although no sound was coming out of his mouth, but more by this father's instinct twitching inside him. Instinct to protect his son from any harm.

He walked toward him; his heart filled with hope as his boy was reaching out, almost submerged by a flooding mud. John extended his hand to grab his son's frail arm. But too far from him, he watched terrified as the scared face of his seven year old boy was swallowed by the dark whirlpool beneath them.

"Luke!"

Reacting on pure impulse, he jumped after him. Pulled down by the strong stream, he quickly sank too into the gloomy waters. As he tried to breathe, hot pain flared through his side. His head jerked back, and hit something hard. As the pain grew insistent in his side and head, the dark whirlpool faded before him.

Assailed by the foul smell of the damp and decaying soil underneath his face, John slowly came back to reality.

His head was heavy and throbbed madly when he lifted it tiredly. Dead leaves remained stuck on his left cheek as he blinked several times before he finally managed to get a brown, but fuzzy image dancing before his eyes. Then, as the image ceased to swing, he realized something hard was still painfully poking his chest. Rolling to his side, he freed himself from the rough and uninvited bark jabbed in his ribs. His cuffed hands dropped back limply on his stomach, tearing a groan from him.

His gaze lost in the grey sky over him, the image of Luke's scared face lingered between the angry clouds. The cold fear that had filled his son's blue eyes was still too fresh in his mind to shave off in a wink. As always in these moments, he bottled up every shred of Luke's memory inside and breathed deeply to focus on the life he had now without his son. But this time, he quickly realized his mistake as he started into a loud coughing fit. Curled up on his right side, a cold piercing pain crept beneath his left arm to his shoulder sending a wave of shivers through his body. His muscles tensed as he swallowed a wave of nausea.

C_rap!_ He must have broken a rib or two. Cuddling his side and gritting his teeth, he counted to three hoping the pain would subside. But things in life don't always work as you wish for, or hell, he wouldn't be in this mess.

After what seemed a very long minute, he decided he had to move. Shooting pain or not, the men he escaped from wouldn't take too long to discover he had flown away. Though they could already be looking for him. For all he knew he could have been unconscious for ten minutes or ten hours. His forehead resting against the dead leaves on the ground, he pushed with his hands to sit back on his heels. His breath came out in a faint groan, and his stare swayed slightly as he glanced at the top of the hill.

The road was probably at two hundred yards from him. He sighed, careful not to disturb his ribs again. It was too far and too high for him to make it in this shape, although the sheriff and his demented club would probably start by the road anyway.

_Then_ _getting down is the only way,_ he concluded. He put his left knee on the ground as his cuffed hands nestled carefully against his ribs. Taking short and slow breaths, he glared at the bottom of the hill. The way down was a slow descent of rocks covered by a slick creamy mud with only rare trees to hold onto. Though it was a bit steep in some places he had no choice but to go down.

One shoulder against the mossy trunk, he raised shakily on his feet, the pain in his chest rising with each move.

"Piece of cake," he grittedbetween his teeth as he started to descend the hill, and muffled a groan as the pain was rising to another level in his side.

"Really not my day," he spat out, slogging between the sliding muddy rocks, his sore legs agreed painfully with him as he looked far ahead.

Down the hill, the shadow of a path was disappearing between a grove of brown and yellow trees. As hot shooting pain soared through his side, his sight stopped tiredly on the line of the trees. He sighed knowing the road would be far and the pain could only increase with his weary walk.

**xxxxxxxxx**

The sun was getting low on the hill. Its last rays shove the top of the pine trees, giving to the light an orange touch.

"This is like trying to find a needle in a haysack!" grumbled a man in a dark brown jacket. The badge of Pennsylvania Rangers sewed on his left shoulder wrinkled as he lifted the arm, pointing at the road.

"Maybe, Dixon," retorted Sheriff Tusler, "but the Master is right; we can't let him wander in our woods like that."

"I know," shot back the ranger, giving him a concerned look. "I just wish we had been more careful with this FBI guy."

"Too late for the wishes, Dixon." A hollow look passed over the sheriff's eyes. "Though you should remember that Charlie put enough tranquilizer in his meal and drink to bring him on his knees in five minutes. He shouldn't have been able to get away like that."

"That's what I'm saying, Carl," the ranger answered. "That man is dangerous!" he said, raising his voice. "Even with just his Coke he shouldn't have been moving at all!"

The sheriff sighed, looking at the men before him, walking and staring thoroughly at the forest around them as they paced the main road.

"Evil must be walking along his side, Carl. Remember what the Master said, that evil will come to mess with our town! What if it was him? What if he's like Tommy?" Anger and fear gleamed in his eyes.

The sheriff stopped, grabbing his green hat. He turned the hat in his hands before looking straight at Dixon.

"Whoever he is, we gonna find him, Dixon. And then, the Master will tell us what to do."

Then he slid the hat back carefully on his head, and raised an icy stare toward the man standing in front of him, his tone tuned up.

"We ain't gonna do anything to him until then, understood?" he said, emphasizing the last word.

Glaring at the sheriff, then at the men that had stopped to look at them, the ranger nodded, "Whatever you say, Sheriff. Whatever you say..."

Anger flushed in the sheriff's eyes. Quietly, Dixon cringed back, regretting his words.

"Put your masks on!" the sheriff ordered to the men and women dispersed on the road.

Without a word, the group of twenty people scanning the road drew a mask from their pockets and slid it on their faces, changing the human team into a creepy herd waiting for new instructions.

"Don't stare at me like that, keep searching, people!" The sheriff shouted as he slid his own werewolf mask under his hat.

The new members of the freakish group went back to their task, walking on each side of the road, and hoping to find a trace of the runner. As the daylight slowly subsided, the truck behind them flashed its lights on, beaming the road with a bright white light in search of a federal agent.

**xxxxxxxxx**

The crunching sound of the dried leaves mixed with old thin branches echoed in the wood with each of his steps_. So much to try to remain unnoticed,_ he thought.

Time was passing slowly, adding more tiredness to John's eyelids and shoulders. The handcuffs clinked when his bounded hands came together as he pressed slightly on his eyelids, trying to shave off the sleep. He didn't know since how long he'd been walking, but he was sure of one thing: it would be night soon, and without shelter in this cold forest his survival was more than hazardous.

It meant he had to find some place to hide, and possibly rest, before the drugs could eventually kick in. And as time passed, each minute was turning into a tough fight to keep his eyes open.

Blinking once more to shake off threatening sleep, his right foot slipped on the damp ground. He found himself laying on his right side, puffing and gasping shallow breaths as a sharp pain shot through his chest. As something on his right had caught his attention, he raised tiredly on his elbows.

About a hundred yards from him, he could distinguish a black square form among the trees. As he looked around, there was nothing but trees all around him. His right palm pressed firmly against his left side, he stood up and trudged toward the form, deciding that in his situation, anything unusual was worth to check.

After a few yards the form took the shape of a small wooden cabin. Cautiously he arrived by the side without a window. Leaning one shoulder against the rough wood, he made his way toward a small window with a broken glass.

Peeping through the dirty glass, he saw nothing but darkness. If someone was inside, the lights had been turned off before he could notice anything. _It could be a trap._

The back of his head pressing against the wooden wall, John blinked and swallowed roughly, assessing his condition. His legs were weak and shook more with every minute as the drugs were kicking in. His breath was short and the pain hadn't vanished at all, instead it was even stronger than when he had woken up. Closing his eyes for a second, he felt the world spin around him. _That's not good._

Afraid of falling asleep in this place without shelter, and with only the sneaky cold to seep slowly inside his muscles, his eyes shot open. _Come on, John! Check this first, maybe you'll get lucky._ It should be warmer inside, and maybe if he was lucky, he might even find something to get rid of these handcuffs. Scanning the ground, he quickly found what he needed. Reaching out, he kneeled painfully, and grabbed a three foot long log covered with brown moss. At least he wouldn't go in unarmed.

Silently, he limped towards the door, the log firmly gripped in both hands. His back against the wall, his left hand slowly reached the handle. Turning it, the handle clanged inside its socket. _The door's unlocked._ Frowning, he looked suspiciously at the door.

Raising the log over his shoulder, he winced as the move had pulled on the sore muscles near his ribs. Breathing slowly to calm the pain still burning through his side, he gathered the last pieces of determination to remain awaked. As he pushed the door with one foot, he wished he still had his gun. Not leaving the time for the hinges to creak, he rushed inside and quickly leant on the nearest wall. His back stuck to the wooden panel, he squinted at the silent darkness.

Quiet, he listened, his senses on full scanning mode. To his right, the door creaked, lazily swung by the wind. Small shapes cut through the darkness but nothing was moving towards him. As he breathed lightly, a bitter taste of dust and fungus lingered on his tongue before invading his nose. Opening widely the door to get more light inside, John discovered he was in a small square room. But most of all, empty. On the left, a table was set aside, remains of a forgotten meal rotting on a dirty plate. Behind the table, a shy ray of light pierced through the broken glass. In the opposite side, another window, larger this time, was opened, creating a cold windy stream with the open door. Finally alone, he quickly closed the door to keep the warmth inside. In this quietness his eyes kept wandering over the coarse furniture.

Shivering as the drugs were finally kicking in, he saw a small stove stored against the back wall. He sighed; starting a fire was out of question, it could give away his position. Sighing, his eyes kept looking, hoping he would find something useful. Hobbling toward the large closet near the stove, he couldn't restrain a deep breath followed closely by a hot shooting pain through his ribs. Wincing, he took support on the wall, easing his breathing. Sweat beaded his forehead. He swallowed; if he had any doubt, it was clear now that he had broken at least one rib.

_Good job__, John! _he cursed.

This wasn't going to help him to get the hell out of here. Scanning the closet, he opened the first drawer on his right. _Empty... Damn it!_

Nervously, he went through three other drawers. But he could only find fishing tools among scattered pieces of papers, pens, some old forks and spoons and one rusty can opener.

He sighed; this wasn't going to open his handcuffs. His hope faded with each second as he turned eagerly to check the room once again. Then, he noticed a small chest under a long cot set up as a bed. As he approached, his foot hit something hard. Looking down, he saw he had bumped into an old car battery. Maybe the former owner used it to get some power. He hadn't time to think more about it as he felt the heavy feeling of sleep pressing on his shoulders. His cuffed hands limp before him, he felt the urge to sit quickly.

Breathing slowly, he sat on the cot and tried to get more air. He couldn't give in to the sleep right now. He had to secure this place. _Set a perimeter, _shot his mind, _right! A perimeter..._

Focusing on staying awake a little longer, he bent looking at the chest underneath. Wincing, he pulled it towards him and opened it, grateful the owner hadn't locked it. Inside, he found a set of clothes neatly folded. Unfortunately for John, it was too small for him to wear. His hands dug in the pile of shirts hoping to find something different than cloth inside. But he found nothing. A tired wince spread over his face, as he leant on the wall behind him. Heaviness pressed further on his eyelids. As he was about to give in to sleep, his eyes shot open. _The car battery,_ he thought.

Gathering his last strength, he limped to the object, and kneeled. Pulling it closer to him, he prayed the battery would still be full. Skilfully, he unscrewed one cap with his knife. An acrid smell of acid bit his nostrils. He closed his eyes. Finally, he thought, luck was giving him a break. But what he was about to do could turn out to be really messy if he wasn't careful. _Yeah,_ and how can you be that careful with a jar full of acid when you're handcuffed?

He knew that for the acid to work, it would have to dribble directly from the battery and into the key hole. Things that could, in fact, turn out to be very tricky, especially when you were drugged and handcuffed. But he wouldn't let those petty details stop him. Extending his legs, he sat on the wooden dusty floor taking a more comfortable position. Then, he settled the battery between his legs. His hands were shaking, and his breathing was short and coming in loud gasps as the drugs were trying to plunge him into a dark slumber. Closing his eyes, he focused on a slow breathing. A light gust of wind coming from the bottom of the door caressed his face. Stiffening, he suppressed a shudder. The pain in his side seemed to increase to a new level. Biting his lips, he stared at the battery.

"Okay, John, it's now or never," he muffled.

The battery between his hands, he lifted one side. The battery swayed a little as the dangerous liquid pushed from side to side. Allowing the battery to bend a bit more, and with little light to see what he was doing, John saw too late as the acid gushed out, splashing the cuff and his right wrist at the same time. A cry of pain escaped his lips as the acid bit in his flesh making a small cloud in the process.

John fell backward, hitting the floor under him. His head bounced on the wood, but it was nothing compared to the flare of his wrist being eaten by the damn liquid. His hands shook uncontrollably, pulling on the cuffs to get free. A sudden click followed by his right hand flying out of the weakened cuff came as a surprise. With the force, his hands dropped limply to his side, as he blinked, trying to figure out what had happened. Realizing he was free, he crawled toward the table, remembering he had seen a large container in the corner. Swaying a bit as he stood up, he quickly peeked inside the container before plunging his throbbing arm into the dark waters. Clenching his jaw he let the cold liquid extinguish the fire sparkling through his flesh.

"Shit!" This wasn't his day at all.

Lifting his good arm, he squinted at the cuff hanging loosely. Even with the faint light inside the place, he could see the bite marks of the acid on the cuff and the chain, as if the steel had been chewed by a giant mouth. Letting his arm fall back to his side, he carefully pulled out the other from the cold water. The fire had slowly subsided, leaving only a dull pain. Blood seeped lazily from the burned wrist, and dripped to the floor.

Shaky on his legs, John hobbled to the chest and picked out the first shirt on top of it. Grabbing one sleeve in his shaky burned hand, he slowly wrapped his whole arm with the fabric. Tying it around, he limped toward the battery. In a loud thud he crumbled on his knees, and stared at the dangerous device although it had been the key to his new freedom. _This time, few drops should do the trick,_ he thought, _just go on easy_.

Grabbing the battery with his aching hand, he slowly tilted it until a few drops fell on the floor. Then, he brought his left wrist right under it, the cuff facing the dark opening. As new drops fell, the acid crawled from the steel parts to the keyhole, leaving a snake like path behind it. Waiting for the acid to work, John watched as a cloud of smoke erupted from the cuff with a grilling-boiling sound. Putting the battery aside, he pulled on the wristband. The cuff opened immediately, releasing his hand. With a metallic thud, the cuffs dropped on the wooden floor.

Without thinking he pulled himself up before the drugs kicked in and walked haltingly to the closet. Inside a drawer, he grabbed a bunch of spoons and forks, and in another one, he took the thread. He blinked several times trying to stay awake. The drugs were taking their toll on him, and he was now running only on adrenaline; he had to act quickly. With heavy steps, he opened the door and went out.

Almost fifteen minutes later, he pushed the door tiredly. Exhausted, he staggered to the stretcher before he crashed loudly on it. His face against the rug material, his mind drifted away. Luke's smile shone on him. A weak smile spread on his own lips. Softly, his eyelids dropped wearily, and he finally surrendered to the drugs and total darkness.

**xxxxxxxxx**

"We ain't find anything here, Carl!" growled Dixon, "it's the middle of the night, we can't see a thing." The ranger shook his head. "I bet he crawled up in a dark place like some kind of wounded animal about to die. We ain't gonna find him!"

The sheriff's eyes shot a threatening look. Even with his mask on, Dixon could feel the fire burning behind the sheriff's eyes. The sheriff spoke slowly, gritting his teeth. "Keep... looking!"

A lump in his throat, Dixon stepped next to the law officer. His hand in front of his mouth, he cleared his throat before taking a neutral tone. "Uh, maybe, Carl,.... if we got dogs it'd work better...." He didn't want anyone else to hear his advice; he felt as if he had pushed enough buttons today with the sheriff, and he knew when he had to stop. After all, the man had been in the Army, and the legend surrounding him was giving him the count of eight men killed in hand to hand combat alone. Although he had heard other things saying the sheriff had killed more, though it wasn't while he was under the flag. So as Dixon spoke, he didn't want to be ninth.

"You know, Sheriff, dogs could find his track quickly."

The sheriff gave him an exasperated look. "I've already sent for them. What do you think am, Dixon? A moron?"

"Sorry, Carl, you know I'm kinda slow."

A long silence settled as the two men watched each other, and then the fire in the sheriff's eyes seemed to fade, turning into a protective one.

"I know, Dixon. That's why you have to stop pissing me off every time you got a question in that empty head of yours, alright!"

"Yeah, sure, Carl. I will."

"You'd better, Ranger!" warned the sheriff, "' 'cause, I'm not always that patient. You got me?"

A sick feeling invaded Dixon as he saw the sheriff's eyes taking a dark glow. He swallowed, "I understand..." he muttered, the air stuck in his throat.

"Good boy," scowled the sheriff before walking toward a group of men gathered near a tree.

Shaking on his legs, Dixon stared at the back of the man walking away from him. _Did he just threaten me? _He wandered.

He knew the sheriff could quickly lose his temper but in the ten years they'd known each other, he had never felt threatened by him. But as he recalled, everything had changed in their town lately. A lot of people had become very suspicious about their neighbors and the big cities surrounding them. And with this FBI guy on the loose, things were only getting worse. _We have to find him quickly, _he thought, _then the Master will set everything right._

**TBC...**


	4. A bridge between space

**A/N:** My sincere apologizes for this long delay. I had so many things going on, though I'm not sure if anyone still follows this story, but in case you're still reading, then, here it's chapter 4, and please let me know if you're interested for more or if I should drop the case.

**Warning:** this chapter hasn't been betaed. So any mistakes are all mine. Feel free to tell me, if you find anything wrong.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Doggett, Scully, and Reyes belong to Fox and Chris Carter.

* * *

She gulped avidly for air, her chest retching in pain; water was everywhere. The cold liquid seeped insidiously inside her lungs, drowning her screams in the darkness surrounding her. Her hands thrashed uselessly before her. Suddenly, a long plaintive scream echoed from far away. Then, her fingers gripped on a wet fabric. Her eyes shot open, fear seizing her. Her breath came in short rasps. Slowly, Monica realized she had been dreaming; a very bad dream. Sitting upright, the move brought fresh air on her skin, hot and wet. Shivering, she tugged the blanket to her and leaned back quietly on the pillow.

The dream had been so real. A chill ran down her spine as she recalled the drowning. A quick glance at the clock taught her it was 5:36. _Not a decent time to call,_ she thought. But what if she was right. Then, a call wouldn't take long, and it wouldn't be that bad after all. Though, it was really early_. Right it's too early,_ she repeated to herself lying back on the bed.

Tugging the blanket over her shoulders, she closed her eyes and tried to get back to sleep, but the nightmare was too vivid in her memory to give her a rest. Shaking from the cold sweat that was now drenching her skin, she exhaled deeply.

She had dreams before, and, even if it happened to be very rare, she had in few occasions felt what someone close was going through. She sighed, wondering if John had made it back home safely. Taking a deep breath, she raised on her elbows and grabbed the phone. _The only way to be sure is to hear his voice._ Knowing she was going to look stupid, she swallowed her fear and pressed the speed dial, waiting anxiously to hear his voice. At least, the sound of his voice would do her some good, she convinced herself. But after four beeps, her gut twitched nervously.

_Why ain't you answering, John? You said you would be there._ The knot forming in her gut tightened, twinging madly. _Come on John, pick it up!_ The constant beeping was the only sound echoing now in her room.

"Where the hell are you?" she said finally breaking the silence.

Counting to ten, she hung up and pushed the covers away. She nervously slid in her paints and headed to the bathroom with only one idea in mind: find John Doggett.

**-XXXXXXX- **

In an old fashioned cabin, far from answering to Monica, John laid on a rough stretcher. As he used to lately, when he woke up; he was welcomed by a hard and tiring beat thrusting mercilessly behind his temples. Already worn out, he cracked an eye open, hoping to put an end to this damned headache.

But unexpectedly, his first view of the world wasn't what he was waiting for. Grinning to him was the warm face of his son before him. The image confused him. He blinked twice, trying to shake the last remnants of his dreams. But before him the small rounded face remained. His vision still in a blur, he distinguished two blue eyes peering at him; a glowing fire sparkling behind them.

"Luke," he mumbled shaving off the remains of sleep.

As his vision cleared a bit, the small round face lost his smile.

"Who are ya? You're not..."

But before he could finish, the boy rushed out. The wood creaked on its hinges as the door swayed loosely, leaving John alone again. Painfully, he looked around, taking on his surroundings, and with the bitter feeling of losing his son for the second time in two days.

Still blinking to shave the last veil of sleep, the headache came back at full thrusting behind his eyelids. Tiredly, he rubbed his unshaven face with his left hand and sat upright, massaging his temples. He probably had imagined all of this, he thought.

As his vision adapted to the faint light, his eyes settled on his messy bandage. Blood had dried while the night, staining the shirt with crimson brownish spots. Pulling the chest from under the cot, he rummaged through it. After a while, he found what he was looking for; two small, blue shirts. He got up and strolled to the container. Pulling out his knife, he started to cut the fabric into long strips. When he was done, he set the strips on the table, and slid down his jacket very slowly. Every move with his left shoulder was sending cold piercing pain in his side. Dropping his dirty green jacket on the table, he proceeded with the same caution with his sweater.

Gritting his teeth, his breath became shallow as he took off his t-shirt. He shivered lightly as the cold temperature greeted his sweaty, bruised chest. Taking the improvised bandage, he started to strap his ribs, and winced each time his hand would touch the dark purple bruise on his left side. Breathing deeply, the air whizzed between his teeth when he tightened strongly the bandage around his chest. For a second, a hot pain flared from his side and exploded in his lungs. His breath short, he flinched under the straining bandage, and he leaned on the table.

Then, when he thought the dressing was tightened enough, he cut through the stained shirt wrapping his right wrist. The bandage caked with dry blood was stuck to his skin, and he had to slowly pull out the rag not to reopen the wound. Wincing, he discovered a bloody raw skin underneath the fabric. Then, he used the old rag to clean the wound soaking it into the water, and pressed lightly the fresh rag against the burn. A cool, soothing feeling seeped slowly to his wrist. And for a second he closed his eyes, breathing slowly, sweat already starting to bead his forehead.

As the cold water cooled his arm, he started to scan the room looking for something he could use on his way back. The place now bathed by the dawn, he noticed a small cupboard in the back. He had to hurry, soon this place would be crawled up with the same crazy ones that were after him. John was sure that if these guys were decided to use the C4, then they would try to shut him off for good and would quickly pick up his track.

Wrapping quickly the rag around his wrists, he slid back into his old t-shirt, not without wincing every time he was lifting his left shoulder. Then, he pulled on his jacket and zipped it to his neck as the morning cold was already making him quivering.

Catching the sight of a hidden cupboard on the other side of the room, John walked to it and opened it, praying he would finally find something useful. But he was quickly disappointed as he found the cupboard almost empty; only brooms were inside, though as he looked closer he found two backpacks covered by dust. In the first one, he found an old can of baked beans, but by the color of the can, only God knew if it was still healthy to eat it. Frowning, he rummaged through the bag and discovered a small notepad with a pen and what looked like a base sure if this could be useful, he slid the backpack on the side.

Opening the second bag, he muffled a sigh as it was empty. His stomach growled loudly, remembering him, he hadn't eaten since he left D.C, two days ago. Focused on the task to find tools or food that could be useful, he ignored his growling stomach as his sight ran from empty shelves to empty shelves.

_No luck. _Besides the two backpacks and the brooms, the cupboard was empty. Turning he scanned the room and walked to the last closet on his left. There, he found a spool of thread, but the remaining things weren't useful. Still rummaging through the junk in the drawer, he stopped quickly. A metallic noise outside had drowned his attention.

Listening carefully, he heard it again. This time no doubt, someone was coming this way and had set on the alarm he had carefully hidden last night. Grabbing the thread, he tossed it in the backpack, and rushed to the back door. Opening it slowly, he peeped outside. The forest was too quiet and too desert to his taste, even the wind had stopped dead in its whistling.

As soon as he began to run, blood rushed behind his temples, his face flushing red as he exited the cabin and headed to the closest bush aligned with the shanty. Kneeling behind it, he caught a herd of dogs barking as other voices were shouting orders.

"In here!" a man yelled, as John saw a glimpse of the man through the foliage, pointing at the cabin he'd just rushed out.

John crawled back behind the bush, observing his pursuers. He noticed their dogs, and grimaced. With the hounds, his chances to lose them were close to zero. But first priority was to put some distances between them. Standing up, he slid the backpack over his right shoulder before running as fast as he could without disturbing too much his broken ribs.

**-XXXXXXX-**

The street was quiet as a graveyard noticed Monica, as she closed the car door. She stood silently, her eyes darting anxiously at the lonely house. Now that she was there she couldn't go back, she told herself, she had to know. With a quick glance at her watch, she climbed the stairs heading to John's front door; 8:13 AM, she checked. If he did come back last night, then he should be there by now. A chill ran down her spine, remembering the last time she had stood in front of his door. Her heart had started to leap in her chest when she was waiting for the door to open. But nothing had happened as it had remained desperately closed.

Taking a deep breath and repeating her fake excuse about needing some files he had taken with him, she knocked and waited. Agitation ran through her muscles, her foot nervously tapping the concrete tile. But like the last time, nothing seemed to move inside. Tension rose again in her shoulders as her gut twisted madly. Turning around at a corner, she trodtoward the kitchen window.

Her hazel eyes peeped through the glass. The place was silent and still, like in a black and white movie. A chill ran down her spine, again, something was wrong. Back to the main door, she banged a second time, giving in to the anxiety growing inside her. Maybe, he was still asleep upstairs and hadn't heard her knock the first time, her mind rambled, trying to convince herself. Waiting, she counted to twenty before pulling her cell phone from her coat and dialed his number. _This time he was going to tell her where he was, no matter what_, she thought furious.

He had lied to her. And for what? In all her life she had never felt so betrayed, though the time she'd seen Folmer taking a bribe had been a tough time too. But this time it was John. Throughout all these years, they had never lied to each other. Maybe hid a couple of things sometimes, but never, never lied to one another, she repeated to herself.

Stucking her cell to her ear, the long beeps echoed with dread. But as the beeps longed, the cold speech she had prepared faded from her lips as she realized he wasn't answering his cell either. The awful feeling of dread hit her with full force. _Something's terribly wrong._ Even if John didn't want her there he would have returned her call. No matter what happened between them, he had never cut the link, always taking her calls. She took a deep breath. This could only mean one thing: something or someone was preventing him to answer. She swallowed the hard truth, suddenly not feeling so well.

"Dammit John! Where did you put yourself into?" She cursed.

Pulling the spare key he had given her, she unlocked the door. Maybe she'll find clues inside. Stepping inside, a short hope sparkled in her eyes as she felt his presence. But then, she sadly realized it was only the lingering scentof his aftershave. Only a ghost of him. A cold twinge pinched inside her heart. She had craved for that scent since she had first found his door closed, and now, she only wanted to wrap herself in it and stayed lost. But she couldn't, not until she had found him and made sure he was okay. Tightening her jaw, she tried to ignore the sweet overwhelming scent and headed toward his room upstairs.

Half expecting to see him asleep, she sighed when she discovered the perfectly dressed bed. _The bed of an ex marine, _she thought with a smirk. Scanning rapidly the bedroom for any indication that could help her understand where he had gone, her eyes settled on a chair. On top of it, a black suit had been tossed over it in a hurry. She frowned recognizing the suit and the blue shirt he had been wearing on Friday; proof he had left on Friday, right after work. A sad feeling soared inside her. _Why John? Why did you want me that far from you?_

It had to be something more. Not calling and leaving her in the dark wasn't his type. Glancing at the closet, she rapidly noticed his boots were missing too, as well as his favorite green jacket. She smiled broadly, it was her favorite too, but she had never told him that though.

He had probably come back right after work to change and left, she deduced. This could only mean it was a private business. But why not talk to her about it. She paused thinking. Unless, ....unless it was work related but didn't want anyone to sneak its nose inside, says her, for example. She bit her lips and sighed. It was so easy to read him when he was close to her, and yet so difficult when he was out of reach. _What got in your head, John?_

Shaking her head in total confusion, she decided she wasn't going to find anything more, and so headed downstairs. Maybe she'll find more clues at the office. It was Sunday, probably deserted, but at least he might have left something. Hoping she was right, she locked the door and strode to her car.

**-XXXXXXX-**

Beads of sweat dripped along his temples as he heaved in pain. The twinge in his side had grown from a small annoying tickling to an excruciating pain. Swallowing hard, he glanced behind him to see if he had finally put some distance with the hound. The regular growing barks taught him they were getting closer. Pressing his hand to his side, he made a dash to a darker spot in the forest. If he wanted to lose the dogs, there were only two ways; to confuse them with a smell, or erase his scent. For now he could only work with the first solution. It was why he was going in circles, hoping it would lure the dogs.

But after doing it for sometimes, he realized it wasn't working. He dropped to his knees exhausted, the barks getting closer. His trap hadn't worked. He sighed, sadly considering his poor shape. Back in the marine he could have run for hours and his breathing would have remained even. But his late training wasn't as tough as it used to be. Too much work, not enough run, had changed him into this lazy guy, he thought with disgust. Although he already knew this, it was always painful to be confronted to the harsh reality. Though, he had to admit, the flare in his side was drowning a lot of his energy out. Leaning one shoulder on a rough trunk, he reassessed his situation. As a well trained marine, he knew when it was strategically time to fall back. And now was a good time to find a place to hide and lost whoever was hunting him.

He had counted around fourteen people were after him. He could at least try to overpower one or two, even three. But fourteen, no way he could take them all. And he was pretty sure he wouldn't get the opportunity to get them one by one as they were always grouped. If he added his broken ribs and the fact he wasn't in very good shape, his odds were pretty low. Though, he bet none of them would be a match to him in a hand to hand fight on a regular day. He sighed looking at his dirty clothes. _Come on John, since when did you get a regular day in the X-files_, he smirked.

He couldn't afford to run all day to lose them, not like that. At one point he'd get worn out, and they would eventually catch him. No, he had to change the rules. Knowing a bit more about them and their way to move through the forest, it was time to try his plan B. Though this one was riskier. He sighed.

"Who wants to live forever anyway?" he whispered.

The barks getting closer pulled him out of his thoughts. It was time to move. Quickly, he grabbed a bunch of dead wood from the damp ground and thrust it inside the backpack. Tossing the bag over his shoulder, he pushed toward a small gloomy hill. They hadn't caught him yet.

After ten long minutes, and finding himself heaving, he stopped resting next to a pine. His breath laborious he checked his surroundings. He was in a small clearing surrounded by woodsand a small hill upnorth._This is perfect_. He pulled out a long branch from a sack of dead leaves and dry needles. Taking the bunch of wood from his backpack, he pulled out his knife from his jeans' pocket. The blade clicked out in his hand. With precision, he began to cut the end of each piece of wood to make it sharp and , he tied them together around a large branch.

_This should work_. He hoped, otherwise he wouldn't bet on his odds to survive long in their hands after what he was about to do.

**-XXXXXXX-**

Suppressing a yawn, the guard at the entrance of the J. Edgar Hoover's building looked at Monica not really surprise to see her as she shoved her ID before him.

"Working again on a Sunday Agent Reyes," threw the guard, as he pressed on the button to let her in.

"Ah, you know me Steve, no rest for the wicked," she smiled, passing the gate and heading to the elevator.

As soon as she got in the elevator, her thoughts drifted back to John. The slow motion of the elevator stopping pulled her out of her reverie. The doors opened and she surprised herself to think that maybe she had imagined all of this, that he was just going to exit their office, a frown breaking his face by some weird case. Unfortunately, only the gloomy silence of the basement welcomed her. Few people in the FBI had ever stepped foot in this place and especially in the office at the bottom edge of the Hoover's building. Mystery and a lot of jokes surrounded this office, the X-files. After the two main agents had withdrawn from it, only John, and she were the last remnants of what had been a long striving quest about truth.

Though she had always wanted to be there, she couldn't imagine working here without him. The place would be too empty, too cold. She had come to understand why Fox and Dana had finally left this place. But for John, it had been different. She knew he cared about Dana more than he would ever admit it. Same story when he had lost Luke, he had clammed himself up.

She sighed, she knew it had been a tough time for him after Dana had left the office. As a strong caring man he had probably felt stranded in a field he didn't want to believe. In fact, as soon as she had arrived, he had pulled himself back into a rational mode, leaving her the 'I want to believe' part and all the Hocus Pocus as he liked to call it. She snuggled a faint smile.

But now that she pushed the door to enter their office, she realized how odd it was for someone to believe when one has lost its faith in everything. Silently, she pressed on a button and a small glowing bulb bathed the office in a bright yellow light. Shadows darted from the entrance and on the walls as if afraid of her presence.

Scanning the place in a quiet, hazel stare, she noticed the cup of black coffee half empty on his desk and frowned as if he had left in a hurry. Among the files on his desk, she noted a lonely sheet with his handwriting. A number and two words were scrambled on it. But what really disturbed her was the underlined word. As the first was a name, the other one was a word she had seen too many: suicide.

The way he had underlined it and added a question mark meant he had doubts about it. _But why?_ Picking up the paper, she dialed the number.

"Quantico, memorial county morgue, may I help you?" A young voice answered.

A deep line wrinkled her forehead. She raked her voice as she spoke, "Huh yes, I'm Special Agent Monica Reyes, my partner, Special Agent Doggett, gave me this number. I believe you talked to him on Friday." Her voice trailed off waiting for the answer to confirm his whereabouts.

"Well, let me see Mam what I have in my files, you said Agent Doggett."

Monica heard the familiar typing on a keyboard, then after a few seconds, the woman spoke again, "Yes, on Friday, Agent Doggett came to see Doctor Haynes."

"Doctor Haynes..." She paused, "Is he here today?"

"Let me check a moment, please."

Another moment later, the voice was back. "Yes mam, he's here, but his shift is over in less than an hour."

"Thank you, I'm on my way," she answered as she hung up quickly.

**-XXXXXXX-**

Between, the dark angry clouds, a lazy sun scattered its reddish rays on the hill. Last call for blood, the men gathered in the clearing, tension rising.

"I'm tellin' you Mike, this man he's some kinda freak!" vomited a large tall man with a Bulldog. "He tells us to go get his lamb and we go. Don't ya think it's weird? Then this G-man comes from nowhere and asks questions about Tommy, and now he wants him too."

"I think you're freakin' out for nothin', Dale," answered the other man. Pulling on his lash, he dragged his German Shepherd to the right.

Dale strode behind him, glancing over his shoulder from time to time, before he stopped, caressing his dog.

"I'm not, Mike," he continued, his voice getting lower. "Good boy," he added toward his dog. The dog muffled a small bark of joy as it looked up to the man.

"The master is right, that FBI guy must be delivered to him A.S.A.P. We can't afford to have the Feds sneakin' up in our things, not now," finished Mike.

"Yeah I know, I know. But do ya really believe Tommy killed himself?" Dale said looking straight in his friends' eyes as he stood up and resumed his walk, his dog carefully watching him.

"I think Dale, there're questions you shouldn't ask aloud," Mike retorted glancing over his shoulder. "The master knows what's best for us." He tugged on the leash looking down at the dog, "C'mon Boy, find him."

"What if he's wrong?" pushed again Dale.

A dark stare passed in Mike's eyes. "He's the master. He can't be wrong." He stated enjoining his friend to shut up with a waving hand.

Muffling his disapproval, Dale shot him a cold stare ready to send back an icy remark. But he was cut off as a call from the left side of the forest caught his attention.

"Over here!" shouted a man. "The dogs've found somethin'."

As they turned toward the voice, they heard a scream of pain coming from the same place.

Dale shot a stunned look at his friend as he rushed toward the voice, Mike a few yards behind him.

**-XXXXXXX-**

John watched quietly has a group of two men with a dog gathered near his hidden place. They were talking so loud that all the forest could see them coming. _If only they could get closer. _A bit closer, then he was sure they would scatter apart in no time, giving him time to set his plan in action. John smiled as the dog tugged on his leash, walking straight into his trap. After a few minutes of intense talks, the men stopped near his tree.

He bit his lower lip waiting for the chaos to erupt. He didn't have to wait very long as a voice called the group. But this time he got lucky, the men started to spread apart as soon as the rumble began.

Being a former marine had some advantages, he smirked. Like setting traps with just a few branches. All that was necessary to immobilize a group. The strategy was all in the part when you could take one out of the group. _I must have caught one,_ he thought with a small smile. Then, it was time to take advantage of it. He focused his mind on the men beneath him, preparing his fall.

As one of the men ran toward the cacophony, John dropped with all his weight on the other guy a few feet away. He felt his boots crushing some bones as he struck the man right in the back. Air emptied the man's lung as he whacked him off balance, crushing him into the ground. Quickly, he rolled on his side, his weapon already in hand. The German Shepherd as surprised as his master, barked angrily at John, but it was too late.

Slashing the air, he aimed at the dog's face. He clenched his jaw as his stake pierced through the dog's skull with a sickening crack. For a couple of seconds, the animal was coursed by small tremors before it finally collapsed, dead in the mud. Swallowing the bile that tried to invade his mouth, John glanced behind him at the man still down. The shock had probably knocked him out as he wasn't moving. Taking a deep breath, he tugged on the stake, removing it from the dog's skull. The blood flew freely from the open gash and mixed into the soil, turning the mud into a dark, crimson puddle.

John sighed, he was sorry for the dog, he never liked to hurt animals but he had no choice, it was either him or the dog. He stood up and stiffened as he turned, and caught with his hands the sharp claws of the second dog flying into the air. Crashing backward, his back collided with the muddy ground. His right arm shielded instinctively his throat from the threatening fangs biting angrily into his flesh. He felt the mud stuck to his clothing under him as he tried to sit but couldn't under the dog's weight pining him down.

Muffling the pain coming from his torn arm, his head turned on the left, and caught the sight of his stake laid between dead leaves and dry wood, only half a yard on his side. Battling to keep the raging dog away from his face and throat, his left hand searched frantically the mud. Finally, his fingers met the rough wood of the branch. Closing his fingers on it, he aimed it at the back of the dog, but the animal, quicker, had caught his movement and avoided the strike by releasing his arm and jumping aside, the deadly spike shoving air.

Growling, the dog jumped again on John's chest. This time, its claws tore the fabric of his sweater, slashing the skin underneath. Releasing a deep grunt, John felt his blood rushing to his head as adrenaline was pumped through his veins. Aiming the stake at the dog once more, John watched helplessly as the animal jumped over his head avoiding the strike again, before its jaws closed onto his right shoulder and pain erupted.

A cry of pain escaped John's lips, as the fangs deepened into his flesh. Then, the pain increased as the animal tugged on the wound trying to drag him toward his master. He heard yells coming closer. _Shit, _he cursed, things weren't turning the way he had planned. The others were heading straight toward him. Getting caught had never been part of his plan. Unable to see the dog still pulling on his shoulder, he thrashed the stake through the air, hoping he would catch the animal somehow. Suddenly, his weapon hit something. A small yelp and the pressure slowly subsiding in his shoulder made him realized he had hit the dog.

Panting, he stood up tiredly, his muscles sending jolts of pain all over his body. Out of breath, he braced himself to face the dog's master, but the man before him stood still in shock, his gaze locked on his dog, tears welling down his eyes.

John swallowed. The dog's fate was not his priority, although not having them able to follow him was all he needed right now. As he quickly scanned the clearing, he saw the other men running toward him. They were still far but he'd better not be there when they would discover what he had done to those dogs. With no time to readjust his plan, he ran in the opposite direction. Branches slashed his face when he crossed the forest.

Behind him, the screams grew louder as they got closer to him. With a small satisfaction, he heard one of the men yelled in pain. The man had probably stepped in another of his trap. At least he had managed to get three down and two dogs. He hoped somehow it would buy him some time to put some distance with the group but the shouting increased, getting him nervous. The men weren't stopping at all as planned. _What's wrong with them?_

Exhausted, he felt a warm sticky liquid dripping along his right arm, and realized he was leaving a clear track for them to follow. _Don't need a dog when you have a bloody trail, damm it!_ He muffled a curse, as he tripped on a log and fell. He'd just got the time to place one hand in defense before his face collided with the ground. He scolded his lack of attention and got up quickly, his face now covered with fresh mud and dry leaves, and resumed his run.

Ahead of him, a new rumble slowly replaced the shouting voices behind him. Still pressing his arm against his side, John increased the pace, a new strength brought by hope of finally finding a way out of this mess. He knew that sound, if only he could reach the cliff before they get to him.

Glancing behind him, he caught a glimpse of two dark shapes heading his way from his left. His lungs burning, he realized they were trying to circle him. Suddenly, he broke to the right, leaving the shelter of the forest and exited into a clear opening. With a brutal stop, his legs clawed to the ground as he faced a tumbling river a hundred feet below him.

_This is it_.

The loud gushing waters were covering every sound around him, and he didn't notice at first the men exiting the forest on his left on a higher cliff. As soon as they spotted John, the sheriff pointed a finger toward him and barked orders. The men rushed in his direction before stopping at the edge of their cliff, ten feet above him. One of them aimed his riffle at John.

"Don't kill him!" yelled the sheriff, but it was too late as the man pulled the trigger and the bullet quickly left the barrel cutting the air toward its target.

The shot missed John's head from an inch. He looked up stunned and watched in horror as they all raised their guns at him. Without a second thought, he pushed on his legs and ran for the edge. Better to take his chances with the tumbling waters than these crazy guys.

As the bullets whistled around him, he thanked his luck that these people weren't good at shooting. Then the shots stopped as soon as his body left the safety of the ground. He began to fly in the air. Unfortunately, gravity recalled him very quickly, and he felt his body being pulled down as he gained more speed. His legs hit the icy waters first, before the liquid froze his senses. Struggling to keep his head above the surface, the freezing waters slowly absorbed his warmth, leaving only a feeling of cold numbness inside his limbs. Turned upside down, and wrenched by the tumbling waters, he felt his heart rate growing down, and his struggling to survive became more and more erratic.

His movement became lazy, as the waters pushed him under the surface and far from his jump site. He felt his strength leaving his body as a burning fire exploded in his lungs unable to breathe. At the breaking point, he opened his mouth trying to find some air, but he only succeeded by gulping the cold liquid.

Fighting only with his will to survive, he pushed harder on his arms and legs, and managed to burst out of the ferocious flow. His face out of the water, he gulped avidly the air. If he could make it to the edge, then he would be safe. Fighting the wrecking, cold waves that tried to keep him under, he swam wearily toward the edge, but the stream was too strong, and each time he was swimming, the flow was pushing him further down the river. For long, lasting minutes, he managed to keep his head out, resisting on pure will, but adrenaline was starting to wear off, and he was so numbed he couldn't even feel his limb anymore.

Then, the tumbling slowly subsided, and he felt himself dragged by a medium stream, the wreck long gone. Between the small waves that still tried to submerge him, and his fight to remain above the water, he spotted a gravel shore far ahead on the left. Gathering his last bit of energy, he swam eagerly toward the shore, each move pulling on his wrenched and tired muscles.

After tremendous efforts, his hand finally gripped on a protruding stone. Pulling on his arms, he hauled himself out of the water. The rushing river echoed in his ears as he crumbled out wearily on the shore. His pursuers far from this side of the river, he let his mind drifted out. For a moment, he couldn't catch his breath, images were spinning inside his head. Drowsy, and cold, in a last coherent thought, he recalled his Sergent Drill yelling at him.

_Are you all dumb! Sleeping uncovered and in the cold is only for the dead!_ The serge had voiced into his ears. _Unless you have a good reason, says to die, you get your ass up, and move for cover, marine._

Shaking his thoughts to wake up, he felt his muscles screamed when he slowly rose on his hands and to his knees, shivering. Water dripped from his weary shape as he stood up shakily. The cold mountain wind was now blowing as the sun was about to disappear. Raising his eyes to the dark clouds over him, small flakes of snow began to fall on his face. He sighed, even the weather wasn't on his side. Cursing his lack of luck, his arms wrapped around his chest to keep some warmth as he stumbled toward the covering of the wood, hoping to find a shelter.

At first his steps were weary and awkward, but as he walked further, he focused on his old training, remembering he had been in worse situations, though not that much. He kicked himself trying to stay positive on his chance of survival, and remained focus on walking. Eagerly, his eyes scanned the forest, searching for any clue that could help him to find a shelter. Still nursing his side, he hobbled tiredly. Around him, the bush had filled every open space, leaving little room even for him to walk through it without getting his cloths stuck or clawed at by torns and dead branches.

Then after, what seemed an eternity, he finally saw the entrance of what looked like a cave. Cradling his ribs tightly, he slipped tiredly against the cold, rough stoned wall as soon as he was sure the place was safe. A neverending chill ran down his back and chest. His frozen, wet clothes clagging at his skin, were like a cold snake around him. Cuddling his legs against his chest, he fought to stay conscious, but his pounding heart hammering behind his temples and raking his skull got the remaining strength from him. Slowly, his eyelids dropped wearily, and he drifted to a cold and restless sleep.

**XXXXXXX-**

One glance at her watch and Dana sighed, 5:52 PM. As if being at the coroner's office on a Sunday afternoon was her definition of a good weekend. Shaking her head tiredly, she headed toward the main desk, hoping Monica had a good explanation for taking her away from her small cousins. Since Melissa's death, her relationship with her brothers had been a bit tensed. She smirked, well she never had a very good relationship with them anyway, but this time she wanted to make it work. So, leaving her three cousins and her family reunion to jump on a case at the first call wasn't going to help. She smiled lightly though. It reminded her the old time with Mulder. Feeling a twinge inside her stomach, she focused on the words Monica had said earlier and pushed aside the thoughts of her former partner. Glancing over a desk she asked to a small brunette in nurse's uniform where she could find Doctor Haynes.

Dana wasn' sure if it was from fear to wake up the dead, or because she was shy, but the woman answered with a small voice, her hand pointing toward the left corridor.

"The doctor has already left, but a special agent is still there, in lab 3," she added, her eyes back rummaging through her sheets.

"Thanks," Dana said, her eyes already on the corridor, looking for Lab 3.

She stopped quickly in front of a door where she could read: LAB 3. The hinges squealed when she pushed the white doors. The bitter and yet familiar smell of antiseptic and formol assaulted her nostrils as soon as she stepped in. Long, steel tables neatly set in rows reflected the white light coming from the ceiling. This kind of shiny and cold place, was all her universe since Mulder's departure. As the doors clapped behind her, a tall brunette detached her sight from a table and walked toward Dana to welcome her. A tight smile on her lips.

"Thanks for coming, Dana," said Monica affecting a worried expression.

A frown creased on Dana's forehead as she shook the hand Monica was extending.

"What's wrong Monica? You said it was important and..."

"It's John," cut quickly Monica.

"John?" repeated Dana, stunned.

"I think he's in troubles."

Dana stared at Monica. "What do you mean, in troubles?"

Monica took a deep breath, her sight wandered in the room before going back to Dana. Her hazel eyes connecting with her friend.

"I called him yesterday..." she paused, weighing her word. "I was worried he had forgotten ...well, an appointment we had made," she added not wanting to give away the plans she had made for the weekend.

A slight smile curved Dana's lips at the use of the word appointment. Her own relationship with Mulder had started the same way as they were together almost everyday, mixing private and professional life, and she knew damn well how it turned up at the end; close friendship evolving quickly to love. Even though it took them a while to realize what it was. She sighed, she missed him so much.

"He admitted he wasn't in D.C. anymore, having followed a friend in need," continued Monica. "But I can't shake the feeling that something important is going on."

Dana looked at Monica, perplexed. She didn't know her for very long, but if there was one thing the woman wasn't; it was being afraid for nothing. Even though Dana had to admit she still had doubts about her so-called impressions, she couldn't deny it had helped her the night William was born. To add to that, Agent Doggett had saved her life more than once and his character, and personality had grown on her to become someone she liked to call friend. Meaning, she couldn't stand aside if he really needed her help. She sighed, knowing her family would be pissed.

"How can I help?"

Monica's shoulders relaxed at Dana's words. She didn't know to who else turn to, and if Dana had said no, then, she would have been on her own.

"Thanks."

"You said it was urgent on the phone," added the red headed, happy to be of some help to her friends.

"Well, after I couldn't reach him this morning, I went to our office, and I found a phone number that led me here. It seems John came to talk to Doctor Haynes on Friday afternoon about a body they have here."

A puzzled look displayed on Dana's face. "A body?"

"A student to be more precise, almost bachelor, Tommy Sullivan. From his file, his body was found few days ago in Tenoscott, Pennsylvania. It seems he drowned."

"Drowned?"

"Yes, the coroner concluded to a suicide, but I have reasons to believe John was thinking otherwise."

"Why's that?"

"First the tone of his voice, and second my...huh...my feeling about all this," finished Monica, her eyes looking intensely into Dana's with hope she was going to trust her.

"I see," said Dana, thinking. "You want me to verify the coroner's report."

"It would be a start, yes," answered Monica with evident relieve.

Without a word, Dana took off her coat and set it on an empty table. She grabbed a white lab coat suspended near the door, and slipped her hands in the familiar plastic gloves.

"Okay then. Where is it?" Her eyes scanned the room searching the body.

"He's over there," Monica said, pointing toward a table in a corner, a long white sheet covering a table.

"You know," began Dana, "you can wait outside. I'll call you as soon as I'm done."

Monica shook her head. "No it's okay, I'll wait here."

Nodding silently, Dana slipped the sheet to the man's feet, revealing the paleness of a dead Tommy.

**-XXXXXXX-**

The sickening feeling of something cold and insidious seeping through his body and mind woke him up with a start. He wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to keep the warmth within his body. Somehow he hoped it would help to muffle the hard beating of his heart that hammered loudly beneath his skull, threatening angrily to burst out, ripping out his ribcage along the way. His head heavy as lead, was continuously slipping from one side to the other. Trying to get his bearings back, John opened tiredly his eyes, but realized too late the big mistake he had made when his vision blurred and the walls spun around him. He shut his eyes to keep the world in one steady place, though it was too late as the dizziness kept growing inside him, his stomach heaving. He fought wearily not to yield under the nagging buzz writhinghis ears.

He took a deep breath. A cold shiver ran down his body and his stomach heaved in pain, sending bile up to his mouth. The bitter taste made him sick, and he fell on his right side, cuddling his chest. He trembled from the cold insidiously sneaking under his skin from his soaked clothes. The sound of footsteps echoed near him. With little energy remaining, he squinted at the shape who was watching him. The cave was almost dark as the sun was now down and the temperature kept decreasing. His muscles were stiff and shaking, and moving was only waking up more painful spots in his tired body. His jaw tightened, but it wasn't enough to stop shocking his teeth, and soon, it echoed in the cave while a shape bent over him, staring at him.

"You gonna die," said a voice, making more a statement than helping him.

John swallowed hard. "...Not,... not dead yet." He breathed out, between his tremors.

"No, not yet," whispered this time the voice, as John recognized it as Danny's.

"Dan....Danny?"

"Yes," answered the boy.

"I need your help?" he mumbled, his forehead resting on the freezing ground, unable to look up.

"I know," stated the boy.

"Are you... 're you with them?" asked John, thinking he was doomed if the kid had been brainwashed by the others.

"I'm here for you, dad."

John blinked, the word hitting him right in the chest. "What...what did ya say?" he swallowed, struggling with old, painful memories of his boy flooding his mind.

"I'm here for you," repeated the voice.

John stared at the kid through a blurred vision. Just for a second he thought it was Luke behind those blue eyes. His heart jumped in his throat, but soon his son's face was replaced by Danny's inquiring sight. He was staring at him with a curious look on his young face.

_Am I losing my mind? It can't be Luke, unless....unless I'm seriously screwed. It can't be real. Luke's dead. He reminded himself, his heart aching even more now._

"Oh no. This is real mister," whispered Danny, as if he was reading John's mind.

John shot him a stunned look. "How...how d'ya know?" _How can this kid know what I'm thinking?_

The kid smirked. "You either dead and you speak to a ghost, or I'm real and I can read your mind."

"I'm not dead," spilled out John, his body ran by a new waves of cold tremors.

"Then I can read your mind," concluded Danny, a big smile plastered on his face.

John closed his eyes, tired. "That's not possible." He refused to admit it._ This isn't real. _He was just delirious, and his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Gosh, it's true, I'm here, and I can read your mind."

John gave up. Being real or not, he had to find a way to survive this freezing night.

"Why are ya here, then?"

"Told you, mister. I'm here for you."

"...don't understand, how...how did ya know I was there?" He huffed with a groan.

Danny shook his head. "You're always that suspicious?" He sighed noticing the doubt in John's eyes.

"I saw you jumping off the cliff. Since I guessed you didn't strike me as a crazy folk, I decided to follow you."

John frowned as he tried to raise on his elbows but finally gave up and lay motionless on the ground.

"You're in a bad shape mister Fed," pointed out Danny as he assessed the blood blotting John's sweater near the shoulder and onto his chest.

His body was now so numb that he couldn't feel the throbbing pain from the bite and slashes.

"No kiddin'," smirked John as he pressed his forehead to the ground, and shot a faint smile to the boy. His eyelids heavy, he was fighting now to keep them open.

"What's his name?" wondered Danny.

Half asleep, it took John a second to realize he had dozed out. "What?" He mumbled.

"What's his name," repeated Danny.

"I don't ..."

"I mean your kid. You do have one, right?" stated Danny, "I freaked out the first time I saw that light in your eyes, but then I realized it was the same when I was looking at the mirror. So was it a he or a she?"

"He," said John, almost choking on the word.

"Must have been pretty bad," added Danny, his sight saddened.

"Why do ya ask if ya can read my mind?"

The kid threw his hands into his jean's pocket, frowning. _He looks so much like Luke,_ thought John. Even the way he was standing and behaving reminded him of his son.

With a long tiring sigh, John looked at Danny, giving up. "Luke, his name was Luke," he breathed out, leaving the time for the painful memories to surface. "He was kidnapped."

Nodding in understanding, Danny stepped toward John, his boots rubbing the rough ground of the cave. Then, he kneeled beside John and helped him to sit against the rocky wall. Faint grunt escaped John's throat as his back rested against the cold rock.

"I'm sorry," Danny whispered sadly, crossing his legs to sit and facing John. "I lost my parents three years ago," he stated, his eyes locking with the dirt covering his shoes.

"I'm sorry too," said John, his pain reflected in Danny's eyes. "Time had been tough on you."

Watching John with an intense gaze, Danny didn't answer. _Come on John, say something. You know what it's __like. _He sat upright, his back against the wall, and his right arm cuddling his chest. His whole body screamed in pain against that move, but he muffled it, his thoughts focused on the kid sitting in front of him.

"It will never fade away," he stated, his breath short.

"What?" asked Danny, affecting a sad stare.

John knew too well what memories were lingering in the kid's mind as it had been the same for him, few years back. _The heck_, he swore mentally, it was still the case.

"The pain," he gritted between his teeth as air grew heavy between them. "The pain, Danny. It never goes away."

"I don't want to feel like that all my life," answered Danny with anger.

"I know...." he paused fighting to keep his eyes open. "...There's nothin' fair in that." He finished in a short breath.

The kid looked at him, his eyes imploring him to tell him that things would get better.

"In time, you'll learn to put it aside... and focus on other things. It doesn't mean you'll have forgotten them."

"It's unfair. They're all gone, but the pain is so strong." Tears welled down the kid's cheeks.

John gave him a faint smile, beads of sweat rolled down his temples as he locked a deep, blue stare in the questioning eyes.

"The pain is strong as your love for them. That's what makes us unique..." He sucked in more air. It was hard now to keep his mind focus as his thoughts slowly drifted. Fighting the sleep, John locked his eyes with the kid in front of him. "It's what makes us able to go on."

A slight smile spread over Danny's face. "Thanks."

"You welcome," said John, wincing as a new wave of pain flared through his chest and hammered behind his temples. He tried to resist the urging slumber, but he felt his head sagged to his shoulder. His eyes almost closed, Danny yelled a bizarre word before he tried to wake him up.

"Hey mister Fed, don't fall asleep," voiced the boy.

"...not," slurred John, his eyes shot open and rolled inside their orbits. The world spun around him. Sick, he bent to his side, falling with the spinning world around him. Too weak, his head sagged limply toward the ground and his forehead rested on the cold stone. Any sensation had vanished from his numb limbs, and only the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat was still there. Even the cold biting his flesh was gone. His breathing too low, he zoned out for a moment before Danny's voice brought him back again.

"Don't sleep or you gonna die mister Fed."

With that, Danny pressed a hand on his shoulder, and shook him, trying to wake him up.

"Hey don't leave me here alone!" voiced Danny. "Come on, you're a Fed, you got to be stronger than that."

The kid's voice was now very far, and John could hear him talking but it was too jumbled to understand it clearly; word having no real meaning to him as he slowly drifted further into the darkness.

"How was your son?" said a small voice from far away, this time more clearly.

The question startled John, bringing with it old memories of a smiling Luke. Then, he became aware of a low warmth coming from his shoulder and suddenly he was cold again. Cold and trembling from every part of his body but the shoulder. Tiredly, he managed to half open an eye. The small shape of Danny appearing in his blurred vision. With worries drew all over his face, Danny stared at John.

"How was he, mister Fed?" He said softly.

John swallowed, trying to remember despite the weary headache hammering in his head.

"He was... filled with energy," he slurred as he closed his eyes, Luke's face printing before his eyes.

Then, he felt the warmth from a skin coming from his hand. As he looked down, he noticed Danny was now squeezing his hand.

"Go on," whispered Danny.

Blinking, John hung onto his son's memory, drawing his strength from his son's smile. A faint smile curved his own ips as he opened his mouth and started to remember Luke.

"He had..." he began with a slurred voice. "...that wonderful stare... every time he was... learning something new..." He breathed deeply, his eyes heavy.

**-XXXXXXX-**

With a fast movement, she pulled out the gloves and tossed them into the disposable bin. Pulling back a stray of red hair that had slid on her forehead, she sighed. _Monica wasn't going to like it._ Over the last three hours, she had used all her medical knowledge to find something that could help them to understand why Doggett had assumed it wasn't a suicide.

She had finally resigned, finding nothing particular to conclude otherwise than a suicide. Not even a damned bruised misplaced. No, this case was very simple. She had to conclude that Tommy's death was a suicide, and she was sure Monica wouldn't like that answer.

Biting her lower lip, Dana stared at the body. _No evidence of anything could be an evidence of something suspicious._ Is it not what Mulder would have said? She smiled, she was starting to think like him now. _But maybe.. _Not really sure of what she was going to find, Dana went to the technical closet and drew a stick about her arm's length. Back next to Tommy, she pushed on the button, holding her breath. The stick glowed a dark, blue light. Her eyes widened. _It was so obvious, why hadn't she thought about that at first?_

Ten minutes later, loaded with a cup of steaming coffee in each hand, Monica pushed the lab door with her shoulder. Deep in her thoughts, she didn't see right away Dana waiting for her, but when her sights crossed she knew she had found something and her heart began to leap in her chest, a name blasting into her mind: _John._

As she handed one of the cup of black coffee to Dana, her friend gave her a small nod and pointed toward Tommy's body.

To her surprise, Monica heard her voice coming as she was choking on the words, "What did you find?"

"Nothing at the pre-exam," she started. Quick to catch Monica's disappointment, Dana continued with a nervous voice. "But I think John was right."

She lifted the white sheet from Tommy's body dropping it to his waist. And grabbed the stick she had left near him. Monica watched as the stick shone a dark, blue light on the body. Then, her eyes glued to a specific spot pointed by Dana.

"I have no idea what it means," said Dana. "But I can tell you, this was done by someone else."

A lump in her throat, Monica was putting the evidences together, and the result wasn't good. Fear glowing in her eyes, she stared at Dana and pulled a plastic bag from her jacket.

"What is it?" questioned Dana.

Glaring at the thing she had in hand, Monica spoke slowly, "It's a Halloween mask...This one is a vampire, I found it among Tommy's things."

Awareness filled Dana's eyes. "He went after him," stated Dana.

"Yes," answered Monica. She shook her head, "but if he had seen this," she said pointing at Tommy's abdomen. "He would have known it was a trap."

Her last word echoed in the lab room, like a death sentence for John. A heavy silence lingered in the lab as both women stared at Tommy's stomach. Glowing in a bright, blue light, five letters were painted on his skin: GODAS.

_John went after Kobold_, thought Monica, her stomach churning. _He went after a demon. _Her eyes closed. _Oh God!_

**TBC...

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**A/N: **Okay, since I haven't updated this story in a while, if you're still following it and want an update, then leave a review for me to know that you're still reading it. Otherwise I'm not sure I'll keep going, as it has been very long now.


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